Song of the Heart
by Lynliss
Summary: ELFSONG SEQUEL!!! In a changed world, those Elves still in Middle-Earth are forced to flee into Mordor in order to survive. What evil is festering in the hearts of Men? And why do the fires of Mount Doom spring again to life? Please Read and Reveiw!
1. Running

Disclaimer:  All characters who appear in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, do not belong to me.  They belong to him.  Also, any places or plot points contained therein belong to him.  Everything else belongs to me.  Please do not use them without my permission.  I make no money from this, and it is meant solely for entertainment purposes, so please do not sue me.  Thanks!

Author's Note:  This is the continuing story of Legolas and Nimoë, which was begun in Elfsong.  I strongly recommend reading that story first.  I guarantee that you will find it an entertaining read ;-p  I will, however, try to make this tale stand on its own as much as possible.  This story will come more from my own imagination than the original since, after the War of the Rings, there is very little left to work with.  As always, constructive criticism is appreciated!  Have fun all!

The young Elf girl stumbled along in her mother's wake, struggling to remain on her feet, although exhaustion was crushing down on her spirit.  "Please, mother, why must we keep on so?"

The older Elf turned her blue eyes back to regard her young daughter.  Pity was there, but also fear, and it was the fear which drove her onward.  "The way is not safe, young one.  We must pass through this region quickly, for Elves are feared here, and if we are found, I do not know what they will do to us."

The girl's face screwed itself up, as if she were about to cry, but she nodded her understanding and continued to place one foot in front of the other.  Each step was perilous, for they were high in the Emyn Muil, on the eastern side of the Anduin.  The grey rocks were splintered and frail, often cracking away underfoot.

Mendiel, the older Elf, looked up into the sky, and she almost wept when she saw that the storm clouds which had been massing to the south were nearing.  Already she could see sheets of rain trailing from the bottoms of the clouds like curtains of grey doom.  If they were caught out in the open they would suffer greatly for, in their haste to leave their home, weeks past, they had been forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and those were now threadbare and torn.  Food they had scavenged off the land, and water had been easy enough to find, but it seemed as if now nature itself had decided to cast its lot in with those trying to kill them.

"Hurry, child!  We must find shelter.  Once the storm reaches us these rocks will become slippery, and too treacherous to pass."  She reached her hand behind her to firmly grasp her beloved daughter's gritty palm.  So many times she had fallen.  So many times Mendiel had feared her lost.  Grimly, she pushed onward.

The first lashes of rain reached the stumbling Elves, still exposed on the sharp ridge of the mountain.  Thunder crashed loudly above them and the little girl began to cry.  Tears of fear mingled with the pouring rain and disappeared down her small chin.  Mendiel saw that they had no choice but to stop, so she sat down at the underside of a large boulder and pulled the girl-child down to her.  She placed the child's back against the stone and shielded her small body with her own, blocking her from the brunt of the storm, which soon shifted from rain to pelting hail.

Bloody welts began to form on Mendiel's exposed back, but she refused to cry out, aware that doing so would only frighten the child more.  Small hands burrowed into her tunic and her daughter's heart shaped face was pressed into her breast.  Her small body was shaking in terror, for the clamor of the storm was unlike anything she had ever heard and, on top of the unspoken anxiety of the last weeks, it had finally broken through her hard-fought resolve.

Lightning flashed so brightly that it lit the inside's of Mendiel's closed eyes a brilliant red.  She clung more tightly to her wailing child, preparing for the crash of thunder that would certainly follow.  When it came, it was so powerful that for long moments the Elf could no longer hear at all.

Dropping her hands from around the child's body, she covered the small pointed ears, hoping to spare her from some small bit of the cacophony raging about them.  Still more lightning flashed, like tongues of liquid fire.  Mendiel was afraid that her eardrums had been ruptured, for she could hear nothing, and there was a burning pain pulsing there.

The girl-child shrieked uncontrollably, digging her body closer against her mother's warmth, and her solidly reassuring presence.  As each new crash of thunder shook the ground, her hysteria grew, and finally she hardly remembered who she was.  All she was aware of was unreasoning terror.

At long last the storm began to pass, and Mendiel dared to lift her head and look about her.  Icy pellets covered the ground as far as her eyes could see and, as she was an Elf, that was far indeed.

Cautiously she rose to her feet, pulling her still screaming child up after her.  To her great dismay, the only reason she could tell the girl was screaming was to look at her face.  She heard nothing.  With her free hand she brought her fingers up to her ears, and when she pulled them away, there was blood on them.  Icy fear coursed through her as she realized that she was likely right.  Her eardrums had been ruptured.  They had been so high up that the crash of thunder was nearer than it had any right to be, and it had been too much.

Desperately, she pulled her daughter's head side to side, inspecting her ears.  Her breath came out in a great sigh when she saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Taking the girl's head firmly in her hands, Mendiel forced the hysterical child to look at her.

"Love, I need you to listen to me closely.  I've been hurt.  I cannot hear.  You will need to be my ears.  Hold tight to me, and if you hear anything out of the ordinary, squeeze me hard.  We are too close to Ithilien to give in now.  The sanctuary of the Elf Colony is not far once we find our way out of these mountains."

The girl's large grey eyes widened and she opened her mouth to reply, but, remembering that her mother could not hear her, she stopped herself and nodded vigorously.

"Good girl.  Now take my hand, and keep on moving.  The way is dangerous, so step cautiously.  I will be right behind you."  Mendiel forced herself to keep a brave front for her daughter's sake, but inside she was quaking in fear.  With her hearing gone, she was afraid that she would not have warning if Men came near.

Over long years, the race of Men had grown wary of all things different from themselves.  Lost to them were the memories of the War of the Ring.  Lost were the tales of valor which told of the great alliance of Men and Elves.  So strong had their fear grown that in many places they had begun to attack and kill any Elves that they ran across.  They traveled in packs, like wolves, for they feared the Elves, and rightly so.  When attacked, an Elf will fight with skill, and one man alone would likely find himself killed, rather than his prey.

Such had been the case so many weeks past.  Mendiel had taken her young daughter out to pick berries in the deep places of Mirkwood, and when they returned, berry-stained and laughing, to their small home, they had found it destroyed.  Smoke rose from the smoldering ruins, and Mendiel had hidden the girl in the bushes before running out to see what was left.

There had been nothing.  All of their possessions had been charred to ashes.  Yet worst of all, Mendiel had found the broken body of her husband tossed carelessly aside, twisted in death.  "Thandruin!" she had screamed, unable to comprehend that he was well and truly dead.  "Thandruin!"

Only her child's plaintive voice calling, "Mother?  What is happening?" had broken her out of her paralysis of loss.  Leaving behind all that she had known and held dear, Mendiel grabbed the girl by her hand and pulled her away, her own instinct to preserve her progeny making her run with all the fleet speed of the Elves.

"Come, child.  We must leave this place.  Men may still be about.  We cannot let them find us."

The girl had stumbled along in her wake, asking, "But what of father?  Why can we not wait for him?"

Mendiel had hushed her savagely, "Quiet!  There is great danger.  Follow me now and do not ask questions."

Mutely the girl had obeyed her commands, and thus they had begun their long and arduous journey south.  They were making for Ithilien, for rumor spoke of an Elf Colony founded there by Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood.  It was said that within the borders of the Colony all Elves were safe, for he guarded the borders with unfailing vigilance.

Mendiel did not know of a certainty if this was true, but, like many others before her, she chose to make the long, dangerous trek south, hoping to find safety for herself and for her daughter.  Now she was afraid that they would not be able to complete the journey.

She regarded her daughter as she picked her cautious way over the icy rocks.  So fair she was.  Her hair was as pale as moonlight, and her deep grey eyes stared out at the world as if trying to absorb it all, every detail, down to the smallest blade of grass.  Her heart-shaped face brought joy to all her saw her, for her smile was unfailing, but her appearance never ceased to cause Mendiel great wonder.  Thandruin and herself both came from families with blue eyes and brown hair, so unusual among the Elves.  It seemed strange to her that from their union they could bring forth a child so unearthly fair in her coloring.

They could not have loved her more, however, had she been a mirror image of themselves, and they had showered her with all the affection and attention they could muster.  Now, to be thrust unprepared into the dangerous realities of the world… Mendiel shuddered.  Only time would tell if the girl was prepared to handle the pressures.  Time, which she was afraid they did not have.

They moved onward.


	2. Attack

Ten days later, the two Elves had climbed down from the Emyn Muil, and they were deep inside the Dead Marshes.  Mendiel kept her keen eyes glued to their surroundings.  Deep, dense fog swirled about, as if it wanted to pull the fleeing Elves down into the dank mires, which menaced them on all sides.  Mendiel had chosen to brave the Marshes because she felt they were better prepared to fight against the forces of the fens than any Men that they might run across in the more open approaches to Ithilien.

The child walked as if she were in a dream.  Exhaustion and starvation ate into her small body, and her usually vibrant face was sunken, her limbs shaking.  For long days they had traversed the dangerous marshes, and the child felt that she could not remember what it was like to not be covered head to toe in sticky mud.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, she stumbled and fell, landing face first in the mire.  Mendiel reached down and lifted the girl back onto her feet.  With a gentle hand she brushed the mud encrusted hair back from her daughter's face.  Her head only reached to the height of her mother's waist, and she reached out, wrapping her small arms about the long legs in front of her.

Mendiel softly pulled the child off her, speaking reassuringly, "It cannot be much farther now.  We will reach the edge of the Marshes, and then we will stay in safer ground for a while."

Turning her filthy face up to her mother, the child sobbed, "Mother, I am so very hungry!" forgetting that she could not be heard.

Mendiel squeezed her close, not understanding the words, but clearly understanding their intent  "I need you to be strong for just a little while longer, love."

It killed her inside to see her only child suffering so, but she had no choice.  It was the only way she could think to save her life.  Once, long ago, they could have gone to the Grey Havens and sailed from there to the Undying Lands, but that way was now closed.  The Men who lived along the shores had destroyed the shipbuilding yards of the Elves, and now none dared show their face there.  Without a ship to sail on, that way of escape was no longer an option.

The now familiar ring of silence greeted Mendiel's ears as she unconsciously tried to listen for the sounds about her.  She shook her head in frustration.  Offering her daughter her hand, she pulled her onward, anxious to be out of the fetid Marshes.

When they had reached the end of the marshes Mendiel had climbed into an obliging apple tree, pulling down several of the ripe fruits.  She had given one to the girl, who ate it with all the speed of a snake striking its prey, then reached for another.  When she had consumed three of the juicy fruits, she had finally paused, smiling up at her mother for the first time in weeks.  Mendiel felt her heart pound more strongly in her chest, glad to have helped to alleviate the child's suffering.

Still they pressed onward, hugging the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow.  The land of Mordor had not yet fully recovered from the long years under Sauron's reign, and Men stayed away from the dark peaks.  That, at least, showed that they retained some sense.  Perhaps there was still hope to save them from the provincial prejudices which had so recently flourished among them.

Mendiel knew that soon they would run into trouble.  The rumored Elf Colony was south of Minas Ithil, a stronghold of Men which rested high in the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow.  In order to pass it by, they would have to move farther down into the verdant plains of Ithilien.  It would be the most dangerous crossing yet, for there was little chance of passing through unseen.  Men seemed to multiply with the speed of rabbits, and much of the country was overrun with them.

Before dropping down from the foothills, Mendiel stopped to use a sharp stone to fashion a crude spear.  She hoped against hope that she would not have to use it, but she would if it meant saving the life of her child.  The girl was sitting away from her, lost in her own thoughts, and Mendiel sighed.  This journey was too difficult for such a young child.  Truly it was too difficult for her, and she was in her prime.

She rose, taking the girl by her small hand, and together they made their stealthy way down into the inhabited lands of Ithilien.  By hiding behind hedges and skirting the edges of towns, the two managed to avoid being seen by Men for three days.  Mendiel felt as if her heart would burst from the tension.  The girl-child had been vigilant, alerting her every time someone came near, and they had found time to hide.

Three long, terrible days.  But now they stood at the most dangerous crossing they would find.  In front of them ran the wide road which led from the Ford at Osgiliath up to the fortress city of Minas Ithil.  A steady stream of Men moved up and down the road, raucous laughter reaching the ears of the child, as they sat perched high in an oak tree, watching and planning.  Mendiel held the girl close against her, her most prized possession.  At last she decided that they could wait no longer.  The tide showed no sign of slowing so, when the sun fell, they would brave the road.  Surely they could avoid detection in the dark of night.

Whispering her plan into the girl's ear, Mendiel tried to stress the importance of what they must do.  "When we cross the road, do not hesitate.  Move across as if you are not afraid.  We can hope that in the darkness they will not recognize us as Elves."  Gripping the girl's shoulders tight, to impress upon her the urgency of her words, she continued, "If something should happen, I want you to run.  Do not wait for me.  Make your way south, and do not stop for anything.  The Colony of Legolas cannot be much farther now.  It is said that the borders are well patrolled, so I believe that you will be found.  You will be safe there."

The girl nodded her understanding, although her grey eyes were filled with trepidation.  Realizing that there was little point in delay, Mendiel dropped down out of the tree, her hand firm on her spear.  Moments later her daughter followed her, and reached out her grubby hand to hold tight to her mother.  When a dark cloud draped itself across the moon, their time was ripe.  Together they stepped out onto the road, which was temporarily free of Men.

When they were almost across, the moon again broke from behind its cloudy shroud.   A shout from behind reached the girl's ears.  "Look at that, boys!  Their ears are pointed!  Elves!"  Cold dread gripped the child's heart as the next words fell, "Get them!"

Frantically, she tugged at her mother, and Mendiel spun about, her eyes seeing the glare of approaching torches, and the figures of running Men.  Breaking into a swift lope, the Elf dragged her child after her, hoping to outdistance the four Men who pursued them.

The girl ran as fast as her short legs would carry her, but she could not keep pace with her mother, and she tripped and fell, dragged along behind for several steps.  Mendiel yanked her to her feet and tried to push her ahead, but the girl could move no faster.  Her breath burned in her lungs and her wasted muscles screamed in protest.

Mendiel could see the lights of the torches drawing nearer, for she could not flee as fast as she would have been able to without her beloved daughter.  Without warning, a burning pain pierced her through and she crashed to the ground.  In disbelief she stared at the arrow protruding from her shoulder.  Grimly she rose to her feet.  Ignoring the searing pain, she raised her spear and turned to give battle.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the girl had paused, hesitating to leave her at the mercy of the band of ruffians.  Tears fell from Mendiel's eyes as she gazed for what was likely to be that last time at her beloved child.  "Run," she whispered.  Then she screamed it, "RUN!!!"  On the last word she charged forward at the towering Men, who raised their swords in answer to her challenge.

The girl stared for a moment in disbelief.  Her mother had been shot!  Those terrible men had shot her!  She wanted to run into the fray, to kick at them, to bite them with her sharp teeth.  But no, her mother had told her to run.  So with one last look, she turned and fled, tears falling freely from her eyes.

Into the deep forest she ran, crashing heedlessly through the underbrush, blind to all impediments.  Branches lashed out at her, whipping her face and arms with their sharp sting.  She dared not look behind her, for fear that she would find the attackers hard on her heels.

Mother! her heart screamed.  The aching pain in her heart came not just from the strain of running without air, for she could not gasp in enough breath to sustain herself, but also from the understanding that her mother had sacrificed herself for her.  Still blinded by tears she ran, struggling to gain breath through her wrenching sobs.

How long she ran she would never know, but when she fell, she could not rise, and she fell into a sleep of deep oblivion.


	3. Legolas

Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, prowled through the woods on the outer borders of his Colony.  When he had founded it some four centuries past, under the welcoming grace of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, it had been a place of great beauty and splendor.  Those who sought its borders came only to experience the wonder of the trees, the fragrant scent that was never smelled elsewhere on Middle Earth.  Then it had been a happier place, and a happier time.

For many long years he had toiled to make the Colony as self-sufficient as he could, and had been happy only when all the needs of those who lived there could be met within its borders.  What drove him to such a point was unclear to him then, but perhaps he had felt the stirrings of unrest beginning in the world.  Either way, it had been his driving purpose throughout the long, lonely years, since the death of his true love.

His long, golden hair fluttered out from under his cloak, and he pushed it back impatiently.  This was not a place to be seen.  The cloaks which his patrols wore he had designed to resemble to the cloaks of Lothlorien, grey and ever-changing in their exact hues.  The better to remain invisible to seeking eyes.

What a terrible change had been wrought in Middle-Earth.  He had left its shores just fifty years after the founding of his Colony, sailing to Valinor with his dear friend Gimli.  The once sturdy Dwarf had begun to falter, and Legolas promised him that he would bring him to the Undying Lands, under his protection, to see once again those friends who had left long ago, and to experience the true majesty of the Valar.

So he had built a boat, tall and stately, and together the Elf Prince and the Dwarf-Lord sailed down the Anduin from Ithilien and from there onto the Western Sea.  Valinor had been more beautiful than he had ever dared to imagine.  The pure light of the forming of the world still shone there, and the sound of clear music never ceased to ring through the air.  Gladly could he have remained in that peaceful place, away from the troubles of the rest of the world, had it not been for one thing.

Nimoë.

His heart swelled at the memory of her still, although she was long centuries departed.  When she had been ripped away from him by Grima Wormtongue, he had thought he would not survive.  She had been made mortal, through an act of heedless self-sacrifice, and it had seemed that he would never find her again, not even in the Halls of Mandos.

Yet, there was still hope.  Lady Galadriel of Lorien had sought after the life-path of his beloved in her mirror, and found that her spirit lived on.  There was every reason to believe that she would chose, as was the right of those Elves who died from injury or from grief, to be reborn.  Her spirit clung to his like the trees cling to the earth.  So he had pulled himself from the mire of despair, swearing to make Middle-Earth a more perfect place, against the time that she would return to it.

Legolas had remained in Valinor until the eventual passing of Gimli, son of Gloin.  When there was no longer anything to bind him to that place, he took his leave of his friends who were to remain behind, then once again boarded his ship, setting off along the straight road back to the Western Seas, and to Ithilien.  So rarely had an Elf chosen to return, that some had speculated that it could not be done.  Legolas found that those before had simply not had enough to draw them back to the living world.  He arrived with no difficulty.

A twig cracked nearby, and it brought Legolas out of his reverie.  He froze, stock still, listening.  After long moments, not another sound broke the stillness, so he relaxed his stance, and continued on his patrol.

The world he had returned to had changed.  When he docked in Ithilien, he was greeted with suspicious eyes, and unwelcoming expressions.  Perplexed, he had returned to his Colony, which had flourished while he was away, for the groundwork he had lain was strong and well-planned.  He was welcomed with open arms and strange tales.

It seemed that the memories of Men were short.  Too many had forgotten their history, and they were beginning to make difficulties for those Elves who still dwelt in Middle Earth.  The news rattled Legolas, for the thought of Nimoë coming back into a world where danger lurked around every corner frightened him.  He had no way of knowing when or where she would return, and he feared that she would not live long enough to be found.  So he had decided to fortify the Colony, to spread word of it as a safe haven. Always he made certain that his name was associate with it, so that if Nimoë was alive somewhere in the world, when she reached her maturity, and she remembered him, she would know where to find him,

To keep his Colony safe, Legolas had instituted a system of patrols, guarding the borders with the vigilance of hawks.  Training was provided, and all male Elves who came to the Colony were expected to take their turns in its defense.  In recent years there had been a steady stream of refugees arriving, and the tales they told set his anger to boiling.

More often now were mobs of Men found, brandishing torches and swords, intent on tearing down this last bastion of the strength of the Elves.  Many skirmishes had been fought, and with each battle Legolas grew more alarmed.  He himself went out on patrol every other day, although it was only required of him once a fortnight.  He found that he could not rest elsewhise.

That day he was patrolling the northern border, and although all seemed quiet enough, his body was tense, ready for action, and his bow was at the ready.  On he walked, through the deep trees, feet soft on the earth, which was covered with a blanket of pine needles.  He cocked his head to the side, listening.  He thought he had heard a sound.  Yes, there it was again.  It sounded like a child crying.

On rapid, but silent feet, he approached the source of the cry.  What he found was a small bundle of rags, lying in a fetal ball at the base of a spreading oak tree.  He circled around cautiously, keeping himself hidden, to see if there was anyone else nearby.  Finding nothing, he stepped out from his concealment and approached the sobbing, muddy bundle.

Dropping down onto his heels, he gently shook the child by the shoulder.  "What is wrong, small one?" he asked in a soft voice.

The response was immediate.  The child leapt to its feet and bolted.  Legolas was quicker, however, and he caught her by the arm.  Her, for beneath the caked mud and bloodied face, he could see that it was indeed a girl-child.  "I am not going to hurt you, child," he cajoled.  "Please, won't you stay and talk to me?  Maybe I can help."

Her wild grey eyes darted about, looking for a place of escape, but finding none, she screwed her courage together and began to kick out at him, scratching with her sharp fingernails, screaming, "I will not stay and speak with you! You'll hurt me, Human!  Just like you hurt my mother!  Let me go!"  She began to cry again, even more piteously than when he had first found her.

What she had said, however, explained much, and he pulled one hand away from his defense to yank back his hood, revealing his Elven features.  Still battling with the frantic child, he spoke in a commanding voice, "Look at me!"

Almost against her will, she did raise her eyes, and she beheld his face.  Her little lips formed into a small 'oh' and she ceased her struggles.  Then, to his great dismay, she flung herself at his feet, wrapping her arms about his legs.  "Please, sir, can you tell me where to find the Colony of Prince Legolas?  My mother told me that we would be safe there.  I've lost her, and I don't know where I am, and I am so very frightened."

Smiling gently to himself, he knelt down and wrapped the trembling child into his arms, offering her what comfort he could.  She burrowed against him, almost as if she knew him, and within his protective embrace her sobs began to lessen.  He rocked her back and forth, stroking her back, "All is well, child.  You have found your way.  You are safe.  I am Legolas, and I will see you safely to my city. Can you tell me where to find your mother?"

Fresh tears began to seep into his tunic and the little girl replied, "I think that she is dead, sir.  Four Men set upon us after the crossing of the road that runs to Minas Ithil.  They shot her with an arrow, and then she made me run."  Her voice cracked with emotion.  "She made me run, even though I wanted to stay.  They had swords, sir, and I do not think she could have survived."

Rage simmered in the heart of the Elf Prince.  What had happened to the once noble race of Men?  How could they perform such atrocities?!  His emotions made him fierce, and the kiss he laid on the small brow was not tender.  "I am sorry, child.  I will send men to see if they can find any trace of her.  For now, will you come with me?"

She raised her tear-stained face to him, and nodded.  "I will."

"Good."  Then he paused, for he realized that he knew not what to call her.  "What is your name, child?"

"Nim…" she choked on a sob, then tried again.  "Nimoë."


	4. Recognition

Nimoë!

For a moment the world stopped spinning.  Desperately, Legolas reached out and pulled the child's face up to his, pushing back the mud encrusted hair, trying to wipe the dirt off of her skin.  Could it truly be?  He cursed the filth that disguised her identity from him, but then he looked, truly looked, into the large grey eyes.  Then he knew there could be no doubt.

His hands moved without his control, stroking the dear face, relearning the familiar contours, although they had not yet molded with maturity.  So young!  Then he became aware of her terrified trembling and his hands twitched with the urgent desire to grab his bow and hunt down the Men who had dared to traumatize her so.  Ungently, he pulled her tight against him, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that finding her again, so unexpectedly, sent spilling through him, like floodwaters bursting through a dam.

Nimoë struggled in his arms, which were suddenly too tight, and she cried out, "Please!  You're hurting me!"

Immediately he released her, almost as if her touch burned him, silently cursing himself.  What was he thinking?  She had no memory of him.  As much as he wanted to hold her close and never let her go again, he had no right.  She was a small child, most likely orphaned, and what she needed was security, not some stranger frightening her half to death.  "I am sorry, Nimoë," he said, struggling to find a plausible explanation for his behavior.  "It is just that I was overwhelmed by the sorrow of your tale.  Forgive me?"

She looked up her pert nose at him, her head tilted to the side, apparently considering whether or not to accept his apology.  Finally, she nodded, giving one last loud sniffle of her nose, and rubbing her grubby hand over her eyes to clear them of tears.  "Very well, then.  Can we go to your city now?  I am so very tired."

He dropped her a low bow.  "As you wish, my lady.  Take my hand and I will bring you there.  It is still some distance.  Are you strong enough to walk?" he asked with concern, noting her haggard appearance and sunken features.

Pulling herself up to her full height, which was less than impressive, she squared her shoulders.  "I am strong enough for anything, Prince Legolas.  I survived the Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes.  One little walk through the trees does not daunt me."

Fighting down the urge to laugh out loud at her show of bravado, he took her small hand in his own.  "Follow me, then." Here indeed was his Nimoë.  Strong in the face of unthinkable adversity, even in her youth.

As they moved through secret paths towards the city, Legolas let out a low hoot, alerting one of his border guards, who was perched high in the trees, that he was leaving his post.  Someone else would be sent to take over his watch.

Walking along at her side, he tried to draw her out, to learn more of her history, and found that it was not difficult.  Like many children, she had not yet learned the art of deception or the wisdom of silence.  She spoke of her home in Mirkwood, of the day when she had returned from berry picking to find her house burnt to the ground.  The day when her mother had taken her and fled, telling her of the Elf Colony in Ithilien, where they would be safe.

"She told me that Prince Legolas is a mighty warrior.  That he would keep the bad Men away from us."  She looked up at him, as if measuring the reality of him up against the heroic figure that her mother had painted for her.  "Is it true?  Are you a mighty warrior?" she asked innocently.

They had come to a steep rock wall, taller than himself, and he reached down and lifted her up, settling her feet on solid holds halfway up the wall.  "Stay there and don't move," he instructed, then scrambled to the top of the wall, where he pulled her up after him.  "I suppose you could call me that.  I have fought in many wars."  His heart screamed within him, aching for her to have memory of the last Great War, when they had fought side by side.

"Well, that is alright then.  Mother was so certain that you would be all that the legends said.  She said that you would take care of us."  There was a moment of silence, and Legolas could not but think that she was remembering that last time she had seen her mother alive.  Savagely he fought down the desire to pull her close again, to offer her comfort.

Shaking herself, she continued, "She was right, wasn't she?  You will take care of me, won't you?"  Her voice had sunk down to a quiet pleading, and Legolas found that he could no longer hold himself in check.

He stopped walking and knelt down in front of her, putting his face of a height with hers.  He held her shoulders gently and said, with all the depth of his emotion, wrought by long centuries of waiting for this one precious girl, "I swear to you that I will keep you safe.  As long as you need it, you have a home with me.  Now that you have found me, you need never fear again."

Impulsively, she snaked her small arms around his neck and hugged him gratefully.  "Thank you, Prince Legolas.  I am ready to go on now."

For three full hours they walked.  Had Legolas been alone, it would have taken less than half that time, but Nimoë was more exhausted than she had shown.  She stumbled often, and would have fallen, but for the Elf Prince's firm grip on her hand.  Stubbornly, she plodded onward, unwilling to speak of her crushing fatigue, the way her legs felt like raspberry jelly and her lungs cried out for breath.

They had lapsed into silence, and Legolas found himself unable to tear his eyes from the top of her small head.  For so long he had waited, anxious to be reunited with his love, but never had he expected her to turn up like this.  Alone.  Afraid.  Completely dependent upon him.

The very real threat that faced his people tempered his exultant joy at having finally found her again.  If ever there was a time when he would rather she had not been reborn, this would be it.  Likely there were a few more years of relative peace ahead of them, but he had no illusions that they would last.  Soon enough his small Colony would be attacked, laid under siege.  

Now, thrown into the balance, he had a newfound reason to fight.  Nimoë!  Still his mind could not truly comprehend it.  What was he going to do?  She had no one else left in the world.  It seemed that she must become his ward.  He did not flinch from the responsibility for, in the absence of a parent, he would not have had it otherwise, but her extreme youth posed problems for him.  He could not raise her as his own.  That would not be right, for his intentions for her were certainly not those of a father towards his daughter.

Rather, he would place her with a family within his realm and, more challenging, he would have to give her as wide a berth as he could, to allow her to grow and flourish without his constant, hovering presence.  Sternly he told himself that he had waited for four long centuries.  Certainly he could wait a few years more.

Feeling a strange shaking along his arm, he looked down at her in alarm.  She was crying again, wrenching, body-wracking tears.  Concerned, he asked, "What is wrong, child?"

Through large hiccupping sobs she cried, "I cannot keep going.  If I take one more step I will fall, and I won't be able to move again!"  Her last word rose on a wail, and she fell to her knees, her face buried in her hands.

Legolas cursed under his breath for what must have been the hundredth time that day.  Darn the girl and her stubborn pride!  He should have known that she would push herself past her limits before she would admit a weakness.  This was the same woman who had proven just that time and again during the War of the Ring.  There was no reason to expect her to be different in this incarnation.

He reached down and pulled her up into his arms.  She seemed to weigh nothing, and a new wave of worry swept over him.  Even a child as young as she was should have some substance to their body.  She must be half starved.  Food and a bath would be her first priorities when they reached the city.

Once he had her firmly in his grasp, he hurried off through the woods at a brisk jog, running smoothly so as not to jolt her.  The need to bring her to a place where she could be cared for was hard upon him, and it gave speed to his feet.

In but a few short minutes, he discovered that she had curled herself trustingly against his chest, and her eyes had closed in sleep.  Oh, the innocence of youth!  Had he been another man, perhaps one with evil intent, she would have been in grave danger, for she placed her trust so completely.

Pushing that uncomfortable thought aside, he ran on, coming to the more frequently traveled paths, closer to the city.  There he passed by other Elves who had come to the safety of his Colony.  They turned to watch his passage with wonder.  What matter was so urgent that their Prince would run towards the city in the middle of the day, when it was well known that he never left his patrol until it was completed? And what small bundle did he carry in his arms?  

At long last he reached the outskirts of the city. Unlike the great cities of the Elves which had flourished during the Third Age, his was more spartan.  Great trees grew clustered close about and, suspended among the branches, were buildings, light and airy, but free of decoration or embellishment.  There had been little time to worry about such frivolities during construction.  It seemed that almost every month a new Elf or family of Elves appeared, seeking sanctuary.

They were put to work, building their own dwellings.  Every able-bodied Elf who joined the Colony was expected to pull their own weight.  They were responsible for the construction and maintenance of their own homes.  The men served time in the border patrol, while the women, and those men who were not out manning the borders, shared other responsibilities, such as farming, cooking, and public works.  There were a few healers among their number as well for, although Elves cannot fall ill, injuries were inevitable in the rustic life that the lived.

As he approached the rope lift that would carry him up into the canopy of the forest, to his own home, Legolas smiled to himself.  He would place Nimoë with a family of healers.  Her natural skills demanded that she should have training in that field.  A gentle snore reached his ears and he smiled, then pulled his right arm tight around her, grasping the rope with his left, while his foot stepped into the loop at the bottom.

One of the men who worked in his household had seen him approach and he dropped the counterbalance down from the high porch.  Immediately, Legolas and his burden were lifted high into the air.  When he stepped off of the swaying rope onto the solid pine of his entry porch, he finally allowed himself a sigh of relief.  Sweeping past the Elf who pulled the counterbalance back up, he pushed wide the door of his home, and went straight through to the sleeping room.

With soft hands he laid the slumbering girl in his bed.  So small was she that she seemed lost in the vast space.  Legolas laid a coverlet over her gently, although he doubted that anything he did would rouse her, and bent down to place a kiss on her forehead.  Before leaving to summon women to care for her upon waking, he knelt down at the side of the bed, taking her small hand in his own.

He spoke an oath then, a solemn pledge.  "Nimoë, once, in another lifetime, I loved you more than life itself.  I have loved you since then with no lessening of my feelings.  I swear to you now that I will protect you with my life.  Although I must remain aloof, I will be ever watchful.  If ever you have need, I will be there to lend you aid.  And when the time comes that you remember what has been, I will be waiting.  Then we will do what we never had a chance to, so many long years past.  I will marry you, and dedicate my life to you.  I swear this on the very blood that beats through my body.  I love you now and forever."

Tearing himself away from the tiny body, which housed the soul of his beloved, Legolas turned and left the room, intent on bringing those who could care for her, and on making a most momentous decision.  Who would raise this child as their own?


	5. Memories and Men

Nimoë glided quickly down the hidden path that led towards the western border.  Her deep green linen dress clung to her newly developing body, and she hummed to herself as she walked.  She carried a basket full of foodstuffs on her hip, her mission to deliver them to the Elves stationed along the perimeter.

Her long blonde hair was pulled into a soft braid that fell down to the middle of her back, and it swayed gently from side to side as she walked.  A bird call came from overhead and she glanced up, then whistled a greeting in reply.  The guard in the tree lowered his bow.

Nimoë lifted her hand and waved a greeting, knowing that the man was there, even though he was so well concealed that she could not see him.  Raids along the border had grown more frequent in the past years, and the number of Elves dedicated to defense had grown accordingly.  Nimoë's foster father Hanadir had even been summoned away from his work as a healer, leaving her foster mother Tinunél and two other women to care for the wounded, who were coming in with more regularity

Nimoë herself assisted when she could, and those who received her ministrations swore that she must be a gift from Ilúvatar, for her hands were gentle, but her healing was powerful.  Hanadir and Tinunél had begun her instruction as soon as she had come to live with them.  It had been a revelation to the traumatized child.  Providing succor to those who were suffering was like a balm to her own soul.  It was as if with each bandage she applied, each healing unguent spread over rent flesh, she was applying it directly to her heart.

That first day in the Colony, she had woken to find herself surrounded by many unfamiliar faces.  She had tried to hide herself back under the bedsheets, but Prince Legolas had gently pulled them down, holding her hands tightly as he told her that her mother's body had been found.  As he spoke, her last remaining hope was dashed from her, and she had thrown herself into his arms, weeping with the sorrow of utter devastation.

He had held her close, absorbing her grief, offering comfort, while the strangers about the bed looked on.  At long last, her sobs had lessened, and she was introduced to the young healers who would serve as her foster parents.  They both had open, smiling faces, and a comfortable ease of speech, which translated to a superb bedside manner.  Nimoë had found them to be friendly, but when the time came for her to leave with them, she became reluctant, clinging to the Elf Prince with both arms, afraid to be separated from him.  He had reassured her, however, promising that if at any time she had need of him, he would come at her call.

Nimoë smiled at the memory.  He had been true to his word.

For as long as she had lived in the Elf Colony she had been aware of him and his constant protective presence.  He was always on the periphery, always just on the edge of her vision.  It seemed that no matter what his duties, he always found time in his day to greet her, asking her about her studies, or bringing her a small offering of wildflowers.  His steady presence lightened her heart and, although it was rare that she was able to spend time alone with him, she treasured those moments.

As she moved on through the dense trees, she cast her mind back to one of her most cherished memories.  Legolas had decided to hold a festival.  Morale was unusually low within the Colony and it had seemed like bringing them all together for a celebration was a good way to bolster their spirits.  Many games were planned: an archery tournament and knife throwing contest for the men, and for everyone there would be races of every kind.

On the day of the festival, Nimoë had come dressed in her best summer frock, hand in hand with Hanadir and Tinunél.  It had been three years since she had arrived, and the unqualified love which her foster parents showered upon her had wiped away the most painful scars of her previous life, leaving her buoyant and effervescent of spirit once again.  The bright colors and joyful dancing music filled her with excitement, and she could hardly restrain her impatience for the games to begin.

The first event to be contested was the archery tournament.  The competition was fierce, for the men of the Colony trained long and hard, but in the end it had come down to Legolas and one other man, the Captain of the Wilderness Guard.  Nimoë had watched with bated breath, willing her Prince to shoot with deadly precision.

When both men took their final shots, Gildir, the captain, came within a hairsbreadth in the bull's-eye, even though the target had been moved back an extra thirty paces.  Nimoë had wrung her small hands together, fearful that even the Elf Prince could not match such a shot.

When Legolas had sighted down his arrow, however, his eyes were fiercely calm, and his arms did not shake, nor did his composure waver in the pressure of the competition.  The twang of the bowstring rang through the silent air and the assembled crowd pulled in a collective gasp of anticipation.

With a solid thwap, the arrow embedded itself into the hay bale, dead center of the tiny bull's-eye.  A great roar of appreciation rose up from the crowd, and the thunder of applause rang in Nimoë's ears.  She leapt up and down, elated by his victory.  In a way, she considered him to be her champion.  He had offered her his protection, and she knew in her heart that he harbored a great fondness for her.

Unable to restrain herself, she ran forward to congratulate him, and he swept her high into the air, holding her up over his head.  With a broad smile, he turned to face the crowd.  "As the champion of archery, I claim the right to chose my partner for the next competition, the three-legged race.  Nimoë, will you do me the honor?"

She nodded her small blonde head vigorously, overwhelmed with excitement.  She would race with the Prince!

  
As he set her feet back on the ground, Legolas called out, "To make this race fair, every pair must be an adult and a child.  Find your partners and assemble at the starting line!"  He pointed to a red ribbon which had been laid out across the end of the large open field, where the festival was being celebrated.

Together the two had gone to fetch a tie to bind their legs together.  At the start line, Legolas knelt down and swiftly tied the rough linen band about their legs.  "There!" he declared, "Now we are bound together as one."

It seemed to Nimoë that a strange expression that she could not identify passed over his face as he spoke those words, but she shook the thought aside, wrapping her arm about his waist.  For a few moments they practiced moving as one, then they were called to make ready.

The race was over in a few short moments, but they were magical.  All around them, pairs stumbled and fell, either because they were trying too hard, or because the adult and the child could not manage to move in unison.  Legolas, however, held her firmly supported about the shoulders, and they moved with ease, not quite running, but with confident steps.  When they crossed the finish line and Nimoë looked up, she saw their nearest competitors cross just behind them.

She had shrieked in joy and, forgetting that her leg was bound, she tried to bounce up and down in her delight.  All she succeeded in doing was losing her balance, and pulling Legolas down with her.  As they fell, he wrapped her in his arms and rolled, so that he landed on the bottom of the pile, with her safe atop him.  Looking down into his face, she had laughed with joy, and was rewarded with the happiest expression she had ever seen on his often somber features.

After that, her foster parents had swooped down upon them, while Legolas untied their feet.  Hanadir lifted her high into the air calling, "Three cheers for Legolas and Nimoë, victors of the three-legged race!"

Nimoë smiled wryly.  She had been so young then, a mere child.  Now she was nearly a woman.  Her body had blossomed over the past years, and she now stood nearly as tall as her foster mother.  It would be only a few more years before she truly became a woman.

Aware of the new responsibilities that her growing maturity brought her, she insisted on performing all of the duties of the adults.  Deliveries to the patrols were the one chore that she could have lived without.  Always she was uncomfortable this close to the border.  The patrols were spread thin, and danger was ever present.  Urging her feet to move faster, she pressed onward.  

A strange hush came over the forest, and Nimoë shivered.  With fearful steps she kept moving forward, into the oddly silent underbrush.  Always it seemed that the birds stopped their singing when danger was near.  To dispel the cold dread which descended upon her, she began to sing.  Singing was her balm.  Strange things seemed to happen when she sang.  If there was something that she truly wanted, and she thought about it hard enough as she sang, more often than not that thing came to pass.  It was almost as if her song could effect the things around her.

She shook her head violently.  Such ideas were ridiculous.  Singing was singing was singing, and nothing magical about it. Nothing magical but the ability to lift one's spirits in dark hours.  So she lifted her voice high, ringing it out loud and strong.  She sang of the birds of the forest, of their beauty and frailty, and concentrated on visualizing them taking comfort and again lifting their melodious voices in song.

The cacophony of birdsong that began about her startled her.  It had happened again!  Why was it that when she wished for a thing hard enough, her song seemed to bring it into existence?  Why?

Lost in her thoughts, she almost did not see the dark forms approaching until it was too late.  Abruptly, a motion caught her eye and she lifted her face to look.  Her heart caught in her throat when she saw a hooded figure crouched low behind a bush, a gleaming glint of metal in his hand.  Looking closer she saw that all about her there were other dark shadows, creeping stealthily forward, and their eyes were focused on her.

Slowly at first, she began to back away, attempting to appear nonchalant, but her backward motion told them that she was aware of their presence.  Dropping all pretence of stealth, the figures leapt forward, swords drawn.

Nimoë screamed and turned to flee.  She dropped the basket of food, sending bread rolls, carrots and apples rolling about the forest floor, providing some small impediment to her pursuers.  On feet made fleet by fear she ran, screaming, "Men!!  Men!  Someone help me!  There are Men within the borders!"

The foremost few of her pursuers began to gain on her, covering more ground with their longer strides.  She strained with every fiber of her body to outdistance them, dodging through the dense underbrush, but saw that she was fighting a losing battle.  With a last glance behind her, she made her final error.  A large root loomed up in her path, but she did not see it, and she stumbled over it, crashing hard to the earth.

As quick as lightning, her attackers were upon her.  Two Men grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet.  Terror like none she could remember coursed through her, and she struggled against her captors, screaming, kicking and biting.  The largest Man among them approached her and pressed his sword up against her throat.  "If you do not stop your screaming, I will cleave your pretty head from your neck," he growled.

Immediately, she ceased her struggles, but could not keep low moans of terror from rising from her throat.  With the cold steel point of the sword embedded against her skin, she held herself immobile, not daring to move a muscle.  "What do you  want with me?" she begged, her voice trembling.

The scruffy looking Man in front of her relaxed somewhat, although he kept his sword poised at her throat.  With his free hand, he scratched at the greyish-brown stubble on his chin.  "Well, let me see, now.  We could kill you, seeing as how you're an Elf, but I think I can find a better use for you."

One of the men who was holding her arms hostage gave a cry of disgust.  "Not that, Rogen!  She's pretty enough, but she's an Elf, for pity's sake.  There's no telling what diseases she's got crawling around in her."

Nodding sagely, Rogen agreed.  "True enough.  But I had something else in mind.  They say that there's a whole city full of Elves in these woods.  I'm going to find it, and then I'm going to burn them out.  Just think!  The King will give me an earldom for certain.  He's wanted to be rid of these foul creatures for long years."

Roughly, he jerked Nimoë close against his body, dropping the sword away from her neck, and he leered down into her face.  "And you, my pet, are going to lead us there."

For an infinitely long moment, Nimoë thought that he was going to kiss her, with his flaccid, deathly pale lips.  Desperately, she renewed her struggles.  "I will never help you!" she cried.  "I would rather die!"

She pressed away from him, her hands planted against his massive chest, trying to put distance between them.  Angered beyond the point of reason at her disgusted rejection, Rogen shoved her down hard and she crashed to her back on the forest floor.  Breath was knocked clean from her body, and she stared up in horror as the Man raised his sword.  "That can be arranged easily enough, Elf!" he cried, spittle flying from his lips.

She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch her own death, but what fell upon her was not the killing stroke of the sword, but the full, heavy weight of a massive body.  Crushing pressure forced what was left of her air out of her lungs, and she pushed up against the substantial bulk, struggling to free herself, with no success.  Her face was covered by the collapsed body, and she could not see.

Although she was blinded, she could hear, and what she heard brought tears of relief to her eyes.  A cold voice, seething with suppressed anger, spoke, "Leave this place now and never return.  If you are seen here again, you will be shot on sight.  And take the body of that animal with you.  Tell your friends that such is what you can expect if you ever again try to harm my people."

There came a scuffling of feet, and the body of the unkempt ruffian was pulled off of her.  Swiftly the group of Men retreated, carrying the body between them, and Nimoë made out a straight-shafted arrow protruding from the lifeless head.  She rose to a sitting position and looked behind her.

Standing in a menacing line were ten of the border guard, their weapons raised, and in front of them was Legolas, his bow still drawn, keeping the Men in his sights until they passed from view.  Then he motioned two of the Elves with him ahead.  "Follow them," he commanded.  "Make certain that they leave this place.  If they do not, kill them."

He glanced down at her then, and a look of incredulous shock spread over his face.  "Nimoë?!"  He crossed the distance between them in an instant, pulling her to her feet, hands traveling over her to reassure himself that she was in one piece.  "What are you doing here?  Have you no idea how dangerous it is on the borders?"

His intensity frightened her, and she replied, "Of course I know it is dangerous.  Everyone knows it is dangerous!  That does not mean that the patrol does not need to eat!  Every day there are women out here, delivering food and supplies.  I am here because it is my duty."

Legolas did not trust himself to speak, so great was his ire.  She was no woman yet, so what was she doing in harm's way?  Someone would answer for this.  Reining in his anger before he could frighten her further, he beckoned forward one of his men.  "Caldarion, take Nimoë home.  Bring her to her mother."

He then turned his intense blue gaze back onto the girl, now so close to blossoming into womanhood.  "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice strained, overwhelmed at the realization of how close he had come to losing her again.

She nodded and bent down to brush the dead leaves off of her dress.  "I am nothing worse than frightened."

"Good.  When I return from my watch, I will come and find you.  I wish to speak with you on serious matters."

Nimoë bowed to acknowledge his request, although she was still shaking with reaction to the attack.  "I will wait for you."

He squeezed her upper arm to help bolster her spirits, giving her a small half-smile.  "Go with Caldarion.  He will see you safely home."

"By your command," she said, then moved towards the young Elf.  He was only a few decades older than she was herself, and already an accomplished fighter.  His deep brown hair reminded her painfully of her mother and father, but she pushed those thoughts away.

She had only taken a few steps when her quaking knees buckled, and she stumbled.  Caldarion reached out a firm hand to steady her, then wrapped an arm about her waist, to support her as they walked.  Nimoë leaned in against his solid strength, accepting his silent comfort.

Legolas watched after them, rage simmering in his veins.  They had almost killed Nimoë!  Too often now were Men penetrating his peaceful domain.  Too often, and with too much cost.  Something would have to be done, and soon, although for the life of him, he could not think what.

Turning abruptly on his heels, he beckoned what was left of the fighters to follow him.  "Come.  We must not relax our vigilance for an instant.  It was only luck that so many of us were near enough to hear her cries.  Keep your wits about you."

The troop of Elves moved out of the glade on silent feet, and soon they were lost to sight.


	6. Repercussions

 By the time that Nimoë and Caldarion reached the forest city, her violent trembling had ceased, but the dark haired Elven fighter kept his arm still about her and she did not pull away.  His silent presence was reassuring and Nimoë appreciated that he did not press her for details of the attack.  That memory was still too near, and she would not willingly relate it to anyone.

They passed through the heart of the city, which was bustling with Elves about their business: installing new ropes to replace those which were wearing out, carrying large bundles of soiled linens to the river to wash, or coming back home after a long day on patrol.  They moved as casually as they could, for Nimoë did not wish to draw attention to herself, but many still watched them, surprised to see the young ward of their Prince enfolded in another man's arms.

If Nimoë was senseless of the attention they were given, Caldarion was not.  Pride swelled within him, that Legolas would see fit to entrust the girl's safety to him.  All who lived within the Colony were aware that somehow the orphaned girl was of special significance to the Prince, although he took pains to make his interest unobtrusive.  Caldarion straightened his shoulders and walked on, solicitously leading Nimoë through the city to the Healing House.  Tinunél would be there, and Legolas had told him to deliver the girl to her mother.

They swiftly approached the building, one of a scant few which stood on the forest floor, rather than in the trees.  That was a concession to the fact that many who were forced to go there were not able to make the climb into the trees, or to ride the ropes.  The Healing House was not large, but it was built with many windows, which opened either out towards the city and the forest, or in towards the courtyard, which served as a place where the injured could rest, within the arms of nature, but away from the bustle of the city.

When the two young Elves entered in the door, Tinunél looked up from the bedside of a woman who had broken her leg.  They had been talking, passing the time before the injured woman could leave the house but, on seeing the haunted look in her foster daughter's eyes, Tinunél leapt to her feet and rushed over to her side.  Caldarion handed the youthful Elf maid over into her mother's arms.

Nimoë wrapped her arms about her foster mother and buried her face in her shoulder, seeking comfort.  Caldarion looked over the girl's head at Tinunél and explained what he had seen of the attack in the forest, then smiled brightly as he said,  "She seems to be well, Tinunél.  I think that she came through unscathed."

Tinunél thanked him for bringing Nimoë safe to her but, as she led her trembling daughter to a bed, she knew that the girl was far from unscathed, although her hurts might not be visible on the surface.  "Nimoë, love, I am here.  Nothing can hurt you.  Will you tell me what happened?"

The girl shook her head, "I cannot.  I do not wish to relive it.  Please, just let me rest."

Tinunél nodded reluctantly.  Nimoë was indeed growing up.  Not many years ago she would have unburdened her heart with no hesitation, glad to give her cares over to her mother, and have them off of her own small shoulders.  The older Elf pulled the blankets up to her daughter's chin and softly stroked back the strands of hair that had detached themselves from her long braid.  "As you wish, Nimoë.  I am here if you need me."

The girl closed her eyes and was quickly asleep, for the strain of the day had been great.  Tinunél looked over at her often as she worked, deeply concerned.  What was to become of them all?  It seemed that Men were growing ever more brazen in their attacks.  What had happened to the once noble sons of Númenor?  A deep sense of hopelessness swept down over her.  For the last several months not a single Elf had appeared on the borders.  It boded ill for the rest of her race.  Unless there was some other place that none of them had heard of, theirs was the last stronghold of Elves in Middle Earth, and they were wholly surrounded by Men, who seemed intent on rubbing them out completely.

Shaking her head to dispel the deep gloom of her thoughts, Tinunél went on about her duties.

That night, as the sun settled into dusk and the stars began to twinkle in the cobalt sky, Legolas returned to the city.  He stopped briefly at his home to shed his dusty patrol garb and dress himself in a pair of comfortable grey hose and a loose-fitting white linen tunic.  Fastening a rope tie about him, to pull the fabric tight about his lean waist, he stepped out onto his entry porch.

For a long moment he stared out at the lights of the city.  Candles glittered in windows, and lanterns glowed from where they hung, suspended over the public pathways.  Everything gave the illusion of stability and peace.  He sighed.  Soon he would have to tell the Elves of his Colony the hard truth.

For many years he had been sending out spies, well disguised, into the world of Men, trying to understand what was happening.  Recently, rumors had reached his ears which troubled him greatly.  It seemed that the attacks along the border were no longer solely the work of superstitious provincialism, but something much more sinister.

Pulling his thoughts back to more immediate concerns, Legolas stepped out onto his drop rope.  He descended swiftly down to the forest floor and moved with purposeful strides to the Healing House.  It seemed that he could no longer keep himself from interfering in Nimoë's upbringing.  Her presence at the border had shaken him terribly and he knew that he had to intervene, to keep her safe within the city, for clearly her mother was incapable of reining her in.

Softly he pushed open the door of the Healing House and walked inside on silent feet.  Tinunél was sitting nearby and she rose to greet him.  "Legolas, can I help you?"

He motioned her back into her seat, a slow anger within him.  Certainly Tinunél had been aware of Nimoë's  actions, and she had not stopped her or, in extremity, asked him for help.  He found that he did not wish to speak to her, for fear that he would say something that he might regret in the heat of his ire.

Legolas spotted Nimoë's moon pale hair in a bed underneath an open window.  Starlight shone down onto her fair young face, giving her an ethereal glow.  He approached her quietly, then gently shook her by her shoulder.

Her pure grey eyes opened and saw him.  "Prince Legolas," she spoke, hurrying to rise.  "I am sorry.  I said that I would wait for you."

"I did not mean for you not to rest, Nimoë.  I am glad you did," he said.  He went to a nearby chest and pulled out a warm cloak, for the autumn night was chill.  Handing it to her, he beckoned, "Come with me, child."

Nimoë pulled the rough wool cloak about her shoulders and followed after him, muttering under her breath, "I am _not_ a child."

Legolas sighed and led her out into the courtyard of the Healing House.  Starlight illuminated the trees and bushes, and brought a strange glow to the changing leaves.  A carved pine bench sat next to a small fish pond, underneath the drooping boughs of a willow tree.  It was there that Legolas led Nimoë, and indicated that she should sit.

Pulling the cloak tight against the chill breeze, she obeyed.  There was an intensity to his presence which alarmed her, and she found that she was apprehensive of what he would say.  One hand came up to twine a loose strand of her hair around her finger, a nervous habit, and she looked up at him, awaiting his words.

Legolas stood facing the pond, with his back towards the adolescent Elf, trying to find the words to express what needed to be said.  At last, he drew breath and began.  "Nimoë, when I asked you what you were doing on the borders today, you told me that it was your duty.  You know as well as I that such is the duty of no Elf until they have reached their maturity.  Why did you take such a risk?  Did Tinunél not tell you that such an act was folly?"

She bowed her head ashamedly.  "Of course she did.  She loves me.  But I see the amount of work that the adults here must do.  My body is strong, and my mind is quick.  I can do the same work just as easily, and offer some rest to the others.  They work so tirelessly, but I know that they suffer for it."

Legolas spun around then to face her.  "Do you not understand why?"  His voice was urgent, and he dropped to his heels in front of her, taking her hands between his.  "Nimoë, we chose to toil because it offers security to our most precious possessions: our children.  Like it or not, you are still a child."  He reached out a hand to push the stray lock of hair back behind her pointed ear.  "What do you think would have happened to Tinunél and Hanadir if you had died today?" Inside he was screaming, "What would have happened to me?!" but he kept his voice low, reasonable.  "They love you as much as if you were their daughter by birth.  Do you not love them as well?  Why will you not honor their wishes?"

Nimoë tried to turn her face away from the accusing pain in her Prince's eyes, but he would not release her gaze.  Shifting uncomfortably, she said in a small voice, "I never thought that anything could really happen to me.  I never meant to cause anybody pain."

He sighed and shook his head.  Why were children always so blissfully unaware of the realities of the world?  "I can swear to you that every time you have left the confines of the city alone, your mother has suffered greatly.  Imagine the anxiety she must have felt!  Not knowing whether you would come back in one piece, but not able to force you to obey…  Take a moment to really think about what you have done!"

Tears of guilt began to fall from her eyes, and they burned into his soul, knowing that he had forced them to be shed.  Still, if making her acknowledge her selfish folly would keep her out of harm's way, he would do so willingly.  "I am sorry," she sobbed.  "Don't you understand that I didn't mean it?  Will she ever forgive me?!"

He reached out a gentle finger to trace away the tears that rolled down her cheeks.  "She has forgiven you already, because she loves you.  But you must swear to me that you will never do such a foolish thing again.  We nearly lost you today, Nimoë.  Had there not been enough of us nearby, it is likely that ruffian and his mob would have finished the job."

She nodded brokenly, accepting the truth of his words.  Memory of the attack crashed over her, and before she could pull the words back, she whispered,  "I was so very afraid, my Prince."

He gently pushed her chin up, forcing her to look at him.  "My name is Legolas.  You may still be a child, but you are old enough to call me by my rightful name.  I wish no title from you."

Legolas understood that she was holding the fear of the attack close inside herself, and he stroked her cheek and whispered, "You know that you can tell me anything.  It might give you comfort to get it out in the open."

Although she had been reluctant to open up to her mother, or to Caldarion, something about the man kneeling in front of her made her feel that she had nothing to fear from him, so she nodded.  Beginning almost reluctantly, she spoke, her eyes focused far away, seeing again what had transpired that day.  "It was so odd.  The birds had all stopped singing, and I was afraid.  But then I sang, and the birds again took up their calls.  It seemed that if the birds were unafraid, then I need not worry.  But then I saw them!  They had swords, and they were stalking me as if I were some sort of an animal…" A shudder ran through her, but she pressed on, encouraged by Legolas' firm grip on her hands.  "I ran.  I ran faster than I thought it possible to run, but it was not enough.  They caught me, and they held me against my will.  I can still feel their fingers digging into my arms.  The one you killed had his sword at my neck… The steel was like a burning flame, yet I could not back away!"

She brought her eyes up from their joined hands to look straight into his clear blue gaze.  "Legolas!  They wanted me to lead them to the city.  They said that they were going to burn it down, and then they would kill us all!  I couldn't do it.  I couldn't!  So I fought, but there were so many…  The last thing I remember is being thrown to the ground, and knowing that I was about to die.  That was when you came."  Through her tears she looked up at him and smiled.  "You told me that you would always come if I needed you.  I am sorry that I doubted."

It seemed to Legolas that at her words his heart burst with joy, mingled with crushing anxiety.  It is true that, had he known she was in danger, nothing could have kept him from her side, but it had been pure luck that he had been nearby.  Pure blind luck and, perhaps, the stirrings of fate.

Her quiet voice brought him out of his reverie.  "Legolas, do you think they will be back?  That Man said that the King himself wants us dead.  Will they ever leave us in peace?"

He shook his head regretfully, unable to hide the truth from her.  "I am sorry, Nimoë.  I wish that I could tell you that all will be well, but I am sorely troubled.  I fear that they will come again, and in greater numbers.  There are so many that I am afraid we will not be able to stand."

The gravity of their situation began to seep past Nimoë's more personal trauma, and Legolas saw the expression of her eyes change, growing even wider, more fearful.    He desperately wished that it could be otherwise, but found that he needed to share his deepest worries with someone, and her very nearness brought his confession pouring from his lips.  "I have told this to no other soul.  Please say nothing until such time as I share this news with everyone.  I am afraid that we will have to leave this place.  We must find a way to escape this world and sail for Valinor.  There is no longer any place in Middle Earth for Elves, but we are surrounded by those who would eradicate us.  We are trapped."

Seeing the pain on her Prince's face, Nimoë pushed her own small troubles down inside of herself, and impulsively gathered him into her arms.  "Do not fear, Legolas.  We will follow wherever you lead.  I see that the burden of command lies heavy on you, but please know that no matter what path you chose, it will be the right one.  We all love you, and we know that you will not lead us astray."

Allowing himself to take comfort from this exceptional maiden, Legolas permitted himself to relax.  Her healing fingers worked themselves into the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders, releasing the cares which he carried there.  It felt like bliss, and he bent forward, laying his head in her lap, where she combed her fingers gently through his long golden hair.

His nearness stirred something inside of Nimoë, a feeling that she did not recognize, but felt oddly familiar.  She felt her heart pounding in her chest, her blood thudding in her ears.  With fingers made strong by emotion, she pulled him up off of her lap until his face was but inches from her own.  The temptation to lay her lips against his own beat into her, but she shied away, instead kissing him softly on his cheek.  "Go and rest, Legolas, my Prince.  I know that there is much for you to decide.  I am here if ever you need me."

He rose gracefully to his feet, pulling her up after him.  His pulse was racing, for he was sure that he had felt a surge of electricity course between them, and he had seen the desire to kiss him flash through her wide grey eyes.  Could it be?  Were her memories beginning to return?

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed them to back of it.  "Thank you, Nimoë.  You will remember your promise?  You will not leave the city alone?"

"I swear it."

Relieved, he led her back inside the Healing House.  He could feel Tinunél's watchful eyes on his back as he brought Nimoë back to her bed and tucked the bedsheets about her so, instead of kissing her brow as he wished to, he gave her hand one last squeeze.  "Rest, Nimoë.  Rest, and I will do the same."

Then he turned and was gone.


	7. Fire!

Three long, tension-filled weeks later, Legolas called for the citizens of the Colony to gather in the festival field.

The sun was sinking behind the trees and the crisp air of autumn chilled Nimoë's lungs as she left the Healing House, following in Tinunél's wake.  They joined the current of mingling Elves, allowing themselves to be pulled along towards the festival field, which had been lit with extra lanterns, in preparation for the meeting.

Nimoë hugged her midnight blue cloak tight about her and shivered.  Three long weeks, and she had not seen Legolas once.  Ever since the strange and unnerving night in the courtyard of the Healing House, when she had ached to kiss him and thought that he would have welcomed it, she had longed to see him, to speak with him, but as each day passed into the next and he was nowhere to be found, she began to doubt her own memory.

Had she been mistaken?  Had their exchange simply been one of a Prince to his ward?  A chastisement?  The more she thought on it, the more she grew certain that she had been imagining the magnetic bond that she had felt drawing them together.  Silly fool! The Prince had better things to do than spend his energies on one imprudent girl-child.  He could not possibly feel anything more than a paternal care for her.  All her flights of fancy were as ethereal as moonbeams, and as insubstantial as dreams.

In a way, she dreaded seeing him at the field.  She would be only one of the crowd, but she found that the thought of seeing him filled her with conflicting emotions: joy, at being near his reassuring presence once again, and humiliation, for she was afraid that he had seen the desire in her eyes, and been dismayed.

They reached the festival field to find a large number of Elves already gathered.  All of the women and children would be present that night, and as many of the men as could be spared from the ever vigilant patrols.  Tinunél took Nimoë firmly by the hand and pressed forward through the crowd, forging a path clear towards the dais which had been hastily erected at the head of the field.

When they could advance no further they were only a few rows back from the front of the crowd, although near to the edge, on the side closest to the city.  Nimoë felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to face her neighbor.  Startling brown eyes smiled down at her and she grinned in reply.  "Caldarion!" she exclaimed.  "I am glad to see you."

The tall Elven fighter had contrived to stop by the Healing House often in the last weeks, asking after her, and they had spent several hours walking near the city, talking of everything and nothing, all of little consequence.  Nimoë knew his thoughts on trees, the weather, dinner, and fighting, but nothing of import.  Still, she enjoyed his company and had not shunned to spend time with him.

"I am glad to see you too, Nimoë.  It has been too long."  His voice was not as full and melodious as that of the Prince, she thought, and immediately chastised herself.  There was nothing to compare the two.  Legolas was thousands of years older, a leader.  Caldarion was just a boy, like herself.  A pleasant boy, to be certain, but nothing when compared with the strength and power of the Prince.

Tinunél hushed them briskly.  "Quiet.  Legolas is coming."

Nimoë stepped onto her tiptoes, straining to see over the taller Elves ahead of her.  When Legolas finally crested the stairs and walked forward to the front of the dais with purposeful strides, a hush fell over the assemblage.

There was a long moment of silence as the Elf Prince looked out over the heads of his people.  So many, and yet so few!  In total, there were nearly a thousand Elves within the Colony, but that number was as nothing when compared to how many had roamed Middle Earth just centuries ago.

At last, he raised his hand and began to speak.  "My friends, I come before you with dire news.  You are all aware that the raids against our borders have been increasing in number and in ferocity.  Only a few weeks ago, one of our youths was almost killed."  His eyes dropped down and rested for a moment upon the beauty that was Nimoë, still breathing, and as innocent as the sun.  Raising his gaze, he continued, "I have had scouts among the courts of Men for many years now, but I just have learned from them that the King of Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien have banded together.  They are intent on driving us from their shores."

A loud rumbling rose up from the assembled, and he again raised his hand to still the voices.  "I do not understand what fell cloud has fallen over the race of Men.  It is as if some strange sickness has shrouded their memory, leaving them afraid of all that is different.  What of the Dwarves, you might ask?  What of Hobbits and Ents and all the other races that once walked freely in this world?  I have little news.  The Dwarves, at least, have been able to secret themselves deep in their mountain fastness, and it is unlikely that Men will find them there.  As to Hobbits, there has been no word from the Shire in decades.  Perhaps they are well, but we have no way of knowing, and my heart fears for them.  Fangorn forest is still feared, and Men will not pass beneath its boughs, so I have hope for the Ents.

"But for us, my friends, I can see little hope.  The race of Men has multiplied and is strong in its numbers.  If they chose to come against us, how can a scant thousand Elves hope to stop them?"

Legolas paused, allowing the import of his words to sink in.  "We must make ready to leave this place.  Plans are already being laid.  Elves who are skilled in the working of wood will be sent south, to the mouth of the Anduin, to build ships strong enough to take us to Valinor."

A loud voice called from the back of the crowd, "But Men live all along the river!  How will we be able to keep such a work secret?"

Legolas nodded, "A valid question.  There are no guarantees.  I can, however, see no other way.  We must take the risk, or we will die.  Our home here is no longer safe.  We must institute this plan as rapidly as is possible.  Are you with me?!"

A cry went up from the assembled, and Nimoë let out her breath, which she had not realized she was holding.  For a moment, she had feared that the Elves would reject Legolas' plan.  When the cry of acclamation reached his ears, she saw his shoulders drop, and the tension in his brow relaxed.  How he worried about them all!  Nimoë ached to go to him and offer him comfort but, knowing that it was not her place, she stayed where she was, absorbing the loud shouts around her, allowing them to buoy her spirits.

Gradually, she became aware of a strange smell, and she spun about, seeking to find the source of the acrid scent.  All the other Elves had their attention focused forward, so she pushed her way through the crowd, unable to see over the tall heads.  When she  had forced her way free, her heart caught in her throat.  All about, in the distance, was a surreal orange glow, a flickering and swirling light that leapt from tree to tree, exploding into raging flames.  Thick black smoke curled upwards, and that was the smell that had reached her.

Raising her voice high, striving to be heard over the cacophony, she screamed, "Fire!  The forest is burning!  Fire!!!"

At that same time, others became aware of the heavy smoke, which began to swirl close.  Legolas heard Nimoë's voice cry out over the rest of the clamor and he raised his eyes to the horizon.  From his higher position he could see that intense flames were moving forward with terrible speed, coming at them from the north, south and west.  His heart pounded, and his fingers crushed into the edge of the dais, as he realized that he was too late.  The attack had come.

The blaze burst forward, almost as if it had its own mind, and he cried out, in a voice of thunder, "Run!  Run to the east!  Do not wait!  _Run_!"  He leapt over the front edge of the dais, landing on legs flexed for action, and began to push forward those who hesitated.

Nimoë stood staring in disbelief at the onrushing conflagration.  Flames leapt from tree to tree, bursting them like tinder, as the pitch inside exploded in the terrible heat.  The sound of crackling flames and bursting foliage filled her ears, and she could hear no other sound.  Choking smoke rolled down upon the field like a black wave, but Nimoë found that she could not force her feet to move.  All she could do was stare in open-mouthed horror while the Elves behind her sped away into the night.

Tinunél looked about her frantically, suddenly aware that Nimoë was gone.  "Nimoë!  Nimoë!!" she shrieked.  Elves pushed past her, wild in their rush to escape the terrible inferno that bore down upon them, and she was buffeted from side to side.  Caldarion caught her in his arms, using his greater height and weight to keep them both upright in the crush of bodies.  "Can you see her, Caldarion?" Tinunél begged. 

The dark-haired Elf peered through the melee and the descending smoke, and shook his head in regret.  "I cannot.  Perhaps she has already run?"

Tinunél shook her head frantically, trying to break free from Caldarion's strong grasp.  "She would not leave me!  I have to find her!"

Abruptly, Legolas was beside them, his hands on their arms.  "Caldarion, get Tinunél away from here.  I will find the girl."

Although the younger Elf did not want to abandon Nimoë, he could not disobey his Prince.  "By your command," he said, then forcibly dragged the screaming Tinunél after him in the wake of the fleeing Elves.

Legolas tore off a strip of material from his long cloak and wrapped it over his face, using it to filter the smoke that threatened to smother him.  Terrible heat burned against his skin as he fought his way back through the cloud of smoke, in the direction where he had heard Nimoë's scream of "Fire!"

One glance about him showed that there was not another soul left standing on the festival field, and for a moment he felt a flash of hope that she had indeed run.  But deep inside himself, he knew that she would never leave her mother alone.  He pressed on, deeper into the searing heat, keeping his eyes open, although the acrid smoke forced tears to flow freely down his cheeks.

It was a fit of tempestuous coughing that finally led Legolas to Nimoë.  The choking sounds came from underneath a fallen pine bough which was smoldering dangerously near its end.  He raced to the large limb and pushed the smaller branches aside.  Nimoë lay there, struggling to shove the heavy branch off of her, choking on her breath as she fought to free herself.

"Hold on, Nimoë!" he cried, looking frantically about for some tool to help lever the burning branch off of her.  He spied a sturdy looking limb and drove it under the branch holding the girl captive.  With every ounce of strength in his body he pressed down, willing the heavy limb to move.  When he thought that he could do more, an urgent moan reached his ears, "Legolas?  Help me!"

Galvanized, he dug deep inside and found one last reservoir of strength.  With a final heave, the burning limb rolled free and Legolas dropped to his knees next to the Elf maid. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

Nimoë shook her head, then was overcome by another fit of coughing.  Legolas dragged her roughly to her feet, for there was no time to waste if they were going to escape alive.

With her hand clasped firmly in that of her Prince, Nimoë stumbled after him.  Her heart was racing and the overwhelming heat bearing down on them made her head swim.  Her lungs screamed in protest, and once again she was doubled over with coughing.  The wracking spasms made her falter and she crashed to the ground.

She was aware of strong arms lifting her up, and then she was slung over Legolas' shoulder.  He ran on, feet given speed by the need to get Nimoë out of danger.  Her head bounced violently up and down, so she wrapped her arms around his waist, trying to keep herself as still as possible.  It was all she could do to aid him in her rescue.

Legolas ran as if the hounds of the Shadow were upon him, but he could tell, without needing to look back, that they were losing the race.  His mind sped, trying to think of some way to save their lives.  Sparks were beginning to rain down about them, and he felt them burning into his skin when they landed.

He became aware of a pounding on his back, and he glanced down and back at Nimoë.  She was gesturing wildly to his left, and he squinted into the smoke.  They had reached the eastern borders, which were hard against the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow.  If there had been time, he would have raced higher into the hills, and come to the place where trees no longer grew, but it was clear that the fire would overtake them well before they could reach that safe haven.

Where Nimoë was pointing was a field of boulders, which had rolled down from the mountains in long year past.  Trees grew thick through the rock field, but there was a slim chance that they could find a hole to hide in.

There was no time to think, so Legolas sprinted forward with the last of his strength.  Searing, burning heat felt as if it would melt the very skin from his body, but he leapt among the rocks, at last finding a deep cavern.  He slung Nimoë off of his back and lowered her down.  She slithered under the overhanging boulder and, once she was through, he slid in after her.

Inside the small cavern, which was almost completely encased in stone, Legolas pressed her small body into the ground, laying his own over her as a last line of defense.  He wrapped his arms about her quaking form, burying his face in her soot-blackened hair, willing the inferno to pass them by quickly.

Nimoë shook with uncontrollable fear as the sound of the approaching flames roared about them.  Her face was smothered under Legolas' chest, but it was clear when the inferno reached their hiding place.  She would have screamed from the pain of the searing, agonizing heat, but the flames stole the very air from her lungs, whipping themselves into an ever greater frenzy.

Together the two Elves lay, struggling to breathe, wondering whether they would live or whether they would die.  Before they could learn the answer, the torment of their bodies overwhelmed them, and both passed into darkness.


	8. The Cliffs of Mordor

Legolas became aware of an aching pain all over his body, and he blinked his eyes open, remembering where he was.  Then he remembered Nimoë.  Swiftly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked down at the girl beneath him.  Her eyes were closed, and she hardly seemed to be breathing.  With trembling hands, he shook her by the shoulder, hoping to rouse her, but there was no response.

"Nimoë!  Wake up, my heart. I need you to come back to me.  Please!"  With one last shake, her eyelids began to flutter, and she gasped in a breath.  That proved to be too much for her soot-filled lungs, and she began to choke, gasping for air, her face turning a frightening shade of reddish-blue.

Legolas lifted her into a sitting position, and held her close against him, supporting her body as she fought to breathe.  His hands clenched in her long hair, willing his strength to flow into her, to help her to calm her tortured lungs.

After long, frightening moments, her wracking heaves slowed, then faded away.  She pulled back away from him, and he saw tears sliding through the black soot on her face, leaving muddy trails along her skin.  "Is it over?" she asked, in a cracked voice.

Legolas nodded.  "The fire has passed, but we must not linger.  As soon as the Men of Gondor and Ithilien are certain that it is safe for them to enter our realm, they will follow in its wake, intent on killing any who might have survived."  He unconsciously brushed her hair back from where it fell over her face.  "We must run.  There is only one way open to us, but I greatly fear it.  We must cross the Mountains of Shadow and make our way into the land of Mordor.  Even Men dread that foul place, and will not enter it."

Nimoë's pale grey eyes grew wide, and she stared at him as if he had sprouted a second head.  "Mordor?  But we cannot!  There are things of evil which still remain in that cursed place.  We will not survive!"

The Elf Prince reached out and pulled her close against him, offering what little reassurance he could.  "We may not, but here our doom is certain.  I can see no other choice.  I need you to be strong Nimoë.  You told me earlier that you are not a child.  Now is the time to prove it."

The girl pulled back from him, the set of her features telling him that she would take up the challenge that he had thrown, knowing she could not refuse it.  "I will prove it to you, my Prince.  I will not be a burden."

Legolas nodded briskly.  "Good.  Come, we must go."  He rose to his feet and pulled Nimoë up after him.  His head almost grazed the overhanging boulder, which had likely saved their lives.  "I will lift you up."

Nimoë stepped to the underside of the large boulder which did not quite reach to the overhanging rock, forming the opening they had slithered into.  Legolas lifted her with strong arms, and she reached out through the small hole, grabbing on to the edges of the stones above, then pulled herself out, while the Prince pushed from below.

What she saw as she stood there, staring out at what had come to pass, made her heart die inside her.  All around were the charred remains of once noble trees, now silenced forever.  Blackened embers littered the ground, and Nimoë could feel the pain and devastation of the forest radiating throughout her own body.  Slowly she sank to her knees, crushed by the grief of loss, and tears fell from her eyes, watering the stones beneath her with their salty wetness.

A hand on her shoulder made her aware that Legolas had also emerged from the cave.  Looking up, she could see the same pain that she was feeling reflected in his eyes.  Yet there was also something more.  A hard glint burned behind his clear blue gaze, a fire of determination to seek revenge against those who had wrought such utter devastation.  He reached a hand down to her, and she laid her own within his firm grasp.   His voice hard, he said, "Come.  We have little time."

They fled.

The ground was treacherous, for there were many places where fires still smoldered, sometimes hidden underneath what appeared to be cooled embers.  Even through the hard leather of their boots they could feel the heat emanating up, and they stepped quickly, both to hasten their escape and to keep their feet from burning.

Their path led them steadily upwards and Nimoë struggled to keep her breathing under control, afraid to be caught again in the terrifying fits of coughing.  Legolas did not release her hand and she drew courage from his silent strength.

Even in the midst of the surreal events of the night, she found that some small part of her heart beat the faster at being near him, at being wrapped in the cocoon of his protective presence.  She did not know if what she felt was love, but it was most certainly infatuation.  His heroic actions had ignited a fierce longing within her, and she felt her battered body yearning towards him.  How beautiful was Legolas!  His eyes as blue as the morning sky, hair of sunlight gold, skin as fair as the glow of dawn on snow covered peaks, and the powerful strength held close within him until such time as it was needed…

Nimoë glanced behind them, and gave a short cry.  "Legolas!  There are lights behind us.  They are coming!"

He turned and looked through the charred remains of the forest.  Sure enough, all about there were lights flickering among the corpses of the trees.  Lanterns and torches.  His keen eyes made out the flash of flame on drawn steel.

"Faster, Nimoë.  We must move faster if we are to escape."

Forcing her legs to run, she chased after her Prince.  Smothering her need to cough, she raced on, although her head spun from the lack of air.  Almost without warning they burst out of the burned forest and onto the rocky precipices that formed the Mountains of Shadow.  Ahead of them, high in the craggy rocks, Nimoë saw a great number of Elves, huddled close together, peering back into the forest.

Legolas saw them as well and shouted up to them, "Keep climbing!  Men are on our heels!  Our only hope is to cross the Mountains into Mordor."  When they hesitated, he roared his command again, waving his arm emphatically, to make his order clear, "Climb!  That is not a request!"

As one, the massed bodies turned and began to find holds which would bring them further from the life they had known and into a world of unknown dangers.  Nimoë looked up at the sheer rock wall that rose in front of her, trying to make out any holds for her hands and feet.  It seemed that only a spider would have a chance of successfully scaling the cliff.

"Go, Nimoë.  I will guard your back."

Reluctantly, she placed one foot into a small fissure, then pulled herself up on a protuberance so small that she could not even see it, anxious lest she should fail.  Once the first move was completed, however, she began to gain confidence, and she moved, slowly but purposefully, up the face of the cliff.

Standing sentinel at the base of the cliff, Legolas felt naked.  He had left his bow in his arboreal home, never for a moment thinking that he might need it.  The only weapon he had with him was a boot knife, and he pulled it from its place of concealment.  The lights were still some distance away, so he looked up, and saw with relief that Nimoë was already halfway up the perilous wall.

When, several minutes later, she reached the first ledge, Legolas re-sheathed his knife, then scrambled up after her.  He reached the ledge quickly, for he had the advantage over her in height, and therefore the climb was less difficult, although by no means simple, as the blackness of the night made finding stable holds challenging.

Nimoë clutched the wall, leaning in against its stability, as she looked down over her shoulder at the approaching Men.  Already they were close enough that she could make out their dark-robed forms, for her eyes were keen.  Legolas' voice in her ear startled her, and she nearly jumped in shock.  "Keep going.  We are not safe yet."

So she scrambled onward, fingers probing through the darkness for solid handholds, levering herself ever higher over the perilous drop back down to the forest floor.  Vainly, she tried to forget the obvious fact that one small slip would be the end of her, and she pressed on.

At long last, Nimoë reached the broad flat space where the rest of the Elves had been huddled when they arrived.  She collapsed onto her face, hugging the ground as if she wanted to sink into it, never to be separated again.  Once she had regained control of her breathing, however, she scrambled onto her knees, and crawled away from the edge of the precipice.

After a few long moments, Legolas' fair head surged up and over the rim of the cliff as well, and he ran to her, swooping her up into his arms, as he fled towards the back of the broad ledge.

"What…" she began, but when an arrow flew just over their fleeing heads she understood.  The Men had reached the bottom of the cliff.

As soon as the Elf Prince reached the base of the next pitch, he set her down on her feet.  "If we remain here, their arrows cannot reach us, but on the cliff we will be easy targets.  We cannot move quickly enough to hope to evade their arrows."  Legolas' eyes burned into hers, and she felt fear sink into the very depths of her soul.  He did not think they would survive.

A loud cry came up the cliff face from below, "You are trapped, Elves!  Our Men are already approaching, and our archers will shoot you down if you try to climb.  Get ready to leave this world, Elves!  Immortal or no, you can still bleed, and you can still be killed!"

Nimoë clung desperately to Legolas' arms, praying that some miracle would save them, but instinctively knowing that it was unlikely.

The Elf Prince detached Nimoë's arms from about him, and he unsheathed his boot knife, preparing himself for his last stand.


	9. Escape

As Nimoë stood, cowering behind Legolas, a strange compulsion came over her.  With every thought of her mind she cried out to be saved, and as she did so, she began to sing.  Every fiber of her being became caught up in the song, weaving strands of some strange power that she somehow recognized, yet did not understand.  Her eyes dropped closed, shutting out everything but the raw power of the song.

Legolas heard her voice raise behind him, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope.  There was not a soul left in Middle-Earth with the ability that Nimoë's previous incarnation had manifested, so there had been nobody to train her.  He had thought that the power would remain dormant.  Still, if she was able to somehow access that power, there might be a chance that they would be saved.

The Elves who had reached the top of the high cliff screamed down at them, calling out that the first of the Men was nearly upon them.  They could do nothing, however, to save their trapped Prince and his ward.  If they moved from the heights they would be within range of the Men's arrows.  High above the other voices was the agonized scream of Tinunél, crying "Nimoë!  No!"

Legolas dropped down into a fighting crouch, the knife held out in front of him.  Within moments a large, muscular Man loomed up over the edge of the cliff, followed by another, smaller and more wiry.  They advanced with swords drawn against the Elf Prince.

Legolas did not advance, knowing that if he did he would be within range of the arrows from below.  By the time the two Men had come within striking distance, two more had crested the precipice.  The first Man swung his sword , and Legolas dodged to the side on nimble feet, lashing out with his knife.  His long reach proved to be dangerous indeed, and the knife buried itself in the burly Man's thigh.

The Elf Prince yanked the knife free in time to duck under a swing by the second Man.  Whirling about, he slashed viciously at the Man's undefended chest.  Blood poured from the deep cut he had laid bare, but still Legolas was forced to retreat.  All four Men came at them, although the burly one limped from the injury to his leg.  With swords upraised they advanced, and Legolas knew that he could not stand for long.  He could not hope to take all four at once, not with only a knife against their long swords.

Nimoë saw nothing of this, for she had fallen to her knees, still with her eyes pressed tight shut, and she was lost within the power coursing through her body.  She was not consciously controlling the song, but words she had never before uttered formed themselves on her lips, and implied harmonies spun with the ease of a lifetime of practice.

_Save us!  Save us!  Save us!_

Those were the only thoughts that she knew, although she knew not to whom she was pleading.  As the power ripped through her, she collapsed upon the hard stone, but forced herself to keep singing, somehow knowing that to stop would be the end of all hope.

The sun was beginning to rise in the east, but on the steep western face of the Mountains of Shadow, all was still in darkness.  Still, a glimmer of russet in the skies to the north caught Legolas' eye.  An Eagle!  An Eagle was coming!

The Elves saw it too, and suddenly their cries changed from anguish to elusive hope.  In the moment of shocked recognition, the third Man who had reached the ledge lunged forward, his sword impaling the distracted Elf Prince in the shoulder.

An agonized scream was wrenched from his throat, but he pulled himself back, off of the point of the sword, lifting his knife with his uninjured arm.  "I will not yield!" he bellowed in challenge, still keeping his body between the attackers and Nimoë's prone form.

Only a few minutes more.  That was all he had to manage.  Surely he could buy her that much time.  The gilded form of the Eagle was advancing on rapid wings, and he could now see the details of its striking plumage.  Gritting his teeth against the pain radiating through his body from the wound in his shoulder, he brandished the knife with all the desperation of a trapped animal, and in the face of the Elf-Lord's violent wrath, the Men fell back, amazed.

But only for a moment.  Then they renewed their attack with fresh vigor.

A rush of air swirled the dust off of the broad ledge, momentarily blinding every person standing there.  Legolas threw his knife hand up in front of his eyes, unable to move his left.  Through the dust, he saw a pair of vast wings soar past, and the giant talons of the great Eagle opened wide, dropping the stones it had clasped within its grasp down upon the heads of the Men at the bottom of the cliff.

Using the distraction of the Eagle, Legolas attacked.  He moved like a whirlwind and, in an instant, the four Men lay dying upon the ground, their throats slashed, and looks of surprised horror pasted on their lips.

The Eagle screeched loudly, and Legolas understood that the great bird would bear them to safety, but, with one quick glance, he saw that there was no way it could get close enough to the cliff to reach them where they stood, so near to the rock wall.  He sheathed his knife and grabbed Nimoë under her arm with his good hand, pulling her to her feet.

She staggered after him, weakened by the power she had used to summon the Eagle.  Legolas found that he could hardly support her, as he himself had lost a great deal of blood, but he forced himself to persevere, although his head was spinning and his legs shook.  Only a few moments longer!  He had to retain consciousness just a few moments more!  They reached the precipice, and Legolas looked down.  Those Men who were left standing were drawing new arrows from their quivers and they raised their bows, sighting up towards the Eagle.

With a great screech, the magnificent bird circled one last time, swooping down beneath the ledge where Legolas and Nimoë were standing.  There was no time to hesitate.  Legolas wrapped his arm about Nimoë and leapt off into space.

The sensation of flying lasted for only seconds, and then they crashed onto the warm feathered body.  Nimoë managed to muster the strength to grasp tightly, keeping herself from slipping off as the majestic bird soared up into the sky, evading the rain of arrows that were sent winging after it.

Legolas almost lost consciousness as the pain in his shoulder exploded from the force of his fall.  For too long he could not control his limbs, and he began to slide down the bird's slippery feathers.  Nimoë felt him slipping and reached out with one hand, gripping his tunic in her small fist, straining against the force of gravity which tried to sweep him away from her to his death.

It was all that she could do to keep her hold, both upon Eagle, and upon the Prince, and she almost sobbed with the strain, her muscles screaming their protest.  Legolas was not aware of the valiant battle Nimoë was fighting to save him.  All he knew was pain and the heady dizziness of his blood-sapped body.

Sweeping high on an updraft, the Eagle swooped down toward the heights of the Mountains of Shadow, with Nimoë clinging with all the strength left in her body.  As the sun burst up over the Mountains of Shadow, the great bird alit nigh to where the refugees from the Elf Colony of Ithilien huddled together, watching the battle and the unforeseen rescue.  Once the great bird folded its wings to its sides, Nimoë released her hold, and the two Elves slid down its back, all strength gone, and lay panting on the rocky ground.

Unable to move, Nimoë did manage to give voice to one last song, the soft music infused with, _Thank you, majestic Windlord.  We owe you our lives.  If ever you are in need, we will come at your call._

The Eagle turned its head, gazing down at her from its deep brown, sentient eye.  It seemed to nod once, then leapt off the heights into the eddying currents of the wind, soaring up and away, back to its secret home.

Within moments, the first of the Elves reached their sides.  Nimoë was vaguely aware of calls of, "Bring a healer!  Legolas is injured!"

Then Tinunél was there.  Although she ached to tend to her daughter, it was clear that the Prince's injury was more dire.  His eyes were glazed with pain and blood flowed freely from the deep wound.  As Tinunél worked over him feverishly, trying to staunch the flow of blood, he reached out and grabbed her arm with his good hand.  Only one word passed his lips, but it was filled with desperate fear, "Nimoë?"

Tinunél soothed him as best she could, saying, "Nimoë is well, my Prince.  You saved her.  You saved my daughter."

On hearing her words, Legolas smiled softly, realizing that he had succeeded, then allowed darkness to take him, and his crystalline eyes rolled back into his head.

As the exhaustion of her song began to fade from her body, Nimoë dragged herself to a sitting position.  "Mother," she whispered, "Where is father?"

Tinunél shook her head sadly, her pale eyes haunted.  "I do not know, child.  So many of the patrol have not been seen…  We can only pray that they will turn up when we return to our homes."

Nimoë glanced about and saw the eyes of her people trained on her, and on the still form of their Prince.  In their eyes she read their fear.  They did not wish to cross the Mountains.  Mordor was anathema to them, and they dreaded it.  Raising her voice so that she would be heard by all, Nimoë addressed them.  "Friends, we must press on.  Legolas wishes it so.  You saw what the Men of Gondor and Ithilien have wrought against us.  Is it not better to brave the perils which are unknown that the certainty of death if we return?"

Aware of the stir her words caused, Nimoë felt the desire to pull them back, to hide behind her youth, but, although she was no orator, she had to see that Legolas' orders were obeyed.  He had saved her, and in turn she would help to save his people.

"This was his command!  Do you not see it?!  We must waste no time.  Even now the Men may be scaling the cliffs.  They will not hesitate to come this far.  Only once we have crossed the pass into the east will they cease to pursue us.  We must go!"

Murmurs of dissent reached her ears, "Are we to listen to the words of a child?  Surely there must be another way?  I will not willingly enter into Mordor…"

One voice rose above the others, however, and Nimoë smiled wanly as she realized that it belonged to Caldarion.  "I will go on into Mordor.  Such is the will of my Prince, and I will see it done.  I think that we must take Nimoë's word that such was his command.  He has confided in no other.  Is it not clear that she is the child of his heart?!  I believe that she speaks with his voice.  Those who will may follow me.  As to the rest, I leave you to your fate."

With that, the tall Elven fighter pushed his way through the throng and lifted Legolas' unconscious form in his arms.  The surrounding Elves silently cleared a path for the brave young fighter.  As he passed by, most turned reluctantly to follow in his wake.

Nimoë staggered to her feet and Tinunél reached out to steady her.  "Can you travel, child?"

Nimoë nodded, then moved off after Caldarion into the deceptively pure light of the rising sun.  "I have no choice."


	10. Mordor

Several long hours later, as the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the Elven refugees had almost crested the craggy pass that would lead them forth into Mordor.  Nimoë and Tinunél had remained near the back of the crowd, for the girl was still suffering the aftereffects of the strange song of power.  Tinunél remained behind Nimoë, afraid that she would slip, that her legs would fail her and she would crash down the mountain.  Yet not once had the girl faltered.  Each step followed the next, slow and plodding, but sure.

Every so often, Tinunél glanced behind, looking for signs that Men were following.  If they were, they were moving slowly, for she could see nothing.  Perhaps the Eagle had done enough damage to repulse their immediate attack.

The Eagle!

Watching the whole surreal event from above, Tinunél had thought that certainly Legolas and Nimoë were lost.  Then Nimoë's voice had raised in song, and her foster mother thought that she had never heard its like.  Often enough Nimoë had sung, for she was a young Elf, and music was an integral part of life.  But her voice, when lilting the familiar lays of their people was a small, pure, clear soprano.  Lovely, but not beautiful, for there were many who could claim a more melodious instrument.

The sounds which had reached to the ears of the watching Elves and also, apparently, to the great Eagle, had been much different: low, potent, and ringing with a vibrant power that seemed to compel obedience.  Where had such a thing come from?  Was there more to this girl-child that she had raised as her own than it seemed?

Casting her memory back, she realized that she had heard once of something similar.  There had traveled with the fabled Fellowship of the Ring, in the end of the third age, a young Elf maid.  Her name was lost to history, for she had refused any such honor, but rumor had it that her voice was a powerful tool of healing, that she had saved the life of Eomer, King of Rohan, sacrificing her own immortality in the process.

As Tinunél climbed on, she wracked her mind, trying to remember every last detail of the mysterious lady of legend.  Ah, yes!  She had died not long after, slain by a minion of Saruman.  It had been rumored that the Elf Prince was in love with her, and when she died he had lost the will to live, neither eating nor drinking, nor even sleeping.  Then, mysteriously, he had pulled himself back from the brink, although none who had told her the story could say how or why.  Never since then had the Prince shown interest in any woman, although many would have been willing, yea eager, to be with him.

Tinunél suddenly ceased her forward motion and looked up at the steadily treading form of her foster daughter.  A strange suspicion began to build in her breast.  Legolas had always been so fiercely protective of the girl, although there had never been an explanation of why…  Could it be?  Was Nimoë the mysterious maiden of the Fellowship, born again into the world from the Halls of Mandos?

But the girl had become mortal!  It was impossible for a mortal to be reborn.  Still, the longer she thought on it, the more firmly convinced she became in her mind.  It would explain the Prince's strange obsession with the girl, and the frightening power that Nimoë had demonstrated on the cliff ledge.

Tinunél realized that she had fallen far behind, and she began to climb again.  In the dusky light of the new morning, she could see her breath coming in foggy puffs.  It was autumn, and this high in the mountains the air was bitterly cold.  She chafed her hands together, but the frigid breezes that blew past denied her even that small bit of warmth.  She bent her head down and remained that way, forging upward without watching what was coming ahead, only keeping her face out of the stinging wind.

Abruptly, she came upon the still forms of the Elves.  They stood, staring out over the pass in dismay.  Tinunél looked out into the desolate landscape that would be her new home.  Blackened earth spread as far as the eye could see, shot through with great crevices and chasms, looking as if a giant had smashed his hammer down, shattering the very ground.  Only a few stunted trees tried to grow, their forms twisted and dwarfed, looking less alive than dead, although the rare leaf could be seen fluttering on a tortured limb.

Across the vast plain and to the north rose a terrible sight.  Thrust up from the earth like a spear driven through from the underworld was a vast mountain, its heights wreathed in black, smoky ash, fiery red rivers rolling down its flanks, clouds of hissing steam rising up about them.  

Tinunél shuddered and heard sobs coming from many about her.  Looking at the blanched faces nearby, Tinunél wanted to cry herself, but found that she could not find the energy.  She looked about for Nimoë, and found the girl sitting on a rocky outcrop, some distance from the others.  Something in the way she held herself told Tinunél that she wished to be left alone, so she bowed to her foster daughter's wishes.  Instead, she went to find Legolas.

Legolas had come back to consciousness a scant half of an hour after he had succumbed to the weakness wrought by his loss of blood.  Elves are quick to heal, and Tinunél had powerful herbs in her ever-present pouch, so, while he was not well, he was strong enough to climb on his own, although he could not use his left arm.  He stood next to Caldarion, who had not left his side, staring out at the warped land ahead.

How could they survive in this place?  There were poisons in the air, and in the land and water.  Growing things were few and far between.  What would they eat?  Drink?  He shuddered.  It was even worse than he had dared to believe.  Surely after four centuries some healing would have taken place… But no.  The evidence was clear before him.  And they had no other options.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nimoë leave the company, settling herself down on a rocky promontory.  Her pale hair fluttered in the cold wind.  Somewhere along the way she had lost the tie holding her braid in place.  Her eyes were fixed forward, and Legolas could guess the nature of her thoughts, much the same as his own.

He tore his gaze away from Nimoë, and looked behind and about him at what was left of his Colony.  There were more than she who depended on him, and now was not the time to leave them to their own devices.  They desperately needed strong leadership.  Many were weeping, both from reaction to the destruction of their homes and the probable loss of their loved ones, and also the fear of the hardships which clearly lay ahead.  Sorrow was heavy upon him, as he guessed that there were only around six hundred left in the company.  Almost half of them lost!  Most of those who were missing were men, those who had been out on patrol when the attack had come.  He harbored little hope of finding them alive.  It seemed that the women outnumbered the men by two to one.

Indeed, they would have to learn different roles in this new frontier.  If they were to survive, they must all be willing to take on new responsibilities, new skills.  A quick thought sped through his mind.  In front of them spread the fields of Gorgoroth.  Perhaps farther south, near to the Sea of Núrnen, there would be a better chance of survival.

Although he harbored no thoughts of ease, for Nurn was still within the realm of Mordor, the idea filled him with a small ray of hope.  It had been rumored that the plains of Nurn harbored some growing things, for it was there that the slave-farms of Sauron had been kept.  Slaves needed to eat.  If they could reach the southern land of Nurn, they might have a chance.

Lifting his voice high, Legolas called out, "We must not falter now.  We must go forth without fear.  Follow me!"

He set his feet on a path down the rugged eastern slopes of the Mountains of Shadow.  Caldarion followed on his heels, unwilling to leave the weakened Prince to his own devices.  Legolas did not need to look behind to know that the others were moving to obey his command.  He could hear them well enough.

He beckoned to Caldarion and the youth hurried to walk at his side.  "Caldarion," he began, "Most of the men of the patrols have been lost.  You are one of few who remain.  You have proven your worth many times over, not least when you convinced the Elves to follow you towards Mordor.  I will need a man that I can trust to serve as my lieutenant.  Will you accept this charge?"

Caldarion felt pride swell in his chest, although it was tempered by the knowledge that it was only due to the loss of many great Elves that he was offered such a responsibility.  "My Prince, it is my honor to serve you in any way that you see fit.  Your valor is legendary, and it humbles me to serve at your side."

Legolas nodded.  "Good.  We have a long hard road ahead of us.  This terrain is too difficult for many, and we must reach the plains of Gorgoroth with all due speed.  From there we will move south.  There will be more mountains to cross, but they are not so terrible.  On the other side is the land of Nurn.  Green things will grow there, not with any vigor, but enough for us to live on."

He shook his head with worry.  "I know not if there will be any food, or even water along the way.  I fear that we may lose more before we reach Nurn.  Still, we must keep them going.  Do not let them falter, Caldarion.  Circulate among them.  Help those that you can."

The younger Elf's brown eyes grew deadly serious as he understood the magnitude of what was facing them.  He held his body straighter, and looked up the slope at those who followed.  "I will do everything in my power.  You can count on me, Legolas."

Legolas nodded, then moved on, exhaustion dogging his steps, the wound in his shoulder throbbing with a piercing ache.  He lifted his eyes to the northeast and looked at the smoking sore that was Orodruin, Mount Doom.  The mountain was no longer dormant.  That boded ill, for at the passing of the One Ring, it had fallen deep into slumber, not to be awoken until some new force of Evil came to call it forth.

He shuddered with remembrance of what had almost been those long centuries past.  Unwilling to dwell on the implications of the rumblings of the mountain, he turned his eyes away, focusing all his thought on seeing his people safe into the land of Nurn.


	11. Darkness

Author's Note:  This is a very short chapter.  I am posting it, because I want to give you all a teaser of what is going to be upcoming.  I am coming up on a very busy time period.  I am preparing a tape for a scholarship audition, so I am going to need to devote more of my time to practice than I have been recently.  I will try to post as often as possible, but there may be more delays than is my usual wont.  I also have several projects going on fanfiction.net right now, and I am still trying to keep up with them.  Don't worry, this story will not disappear.  I just wanted to explain why my posting might not be so frequent.  I hope that you will stick with me. ;-)

Smoke and ash swirled on the black air, coating every crevice of the cavernous dungeon.  Iron manacles hung from the walls, empty but for one pair.  The naked body of a male Elf hung there.  His dark hair hung in snarled hanks, and there were raised welts all along his chest and back.  Once, long ago, he thought that he had known his name, but that time was long past.  All that now existed was pain.  Pain, and the ever-present stench of sulfur.

A small part of him knew that he was deep within the bowels of Orodruin.  That he had not come there willingly.  In the welcome respite between beatings, he struggled to pull to his mind what exactly it was that he was hiding from his captors.  He could not remember how long he had hung there on the ash-encrusted wall, but it felt like eternity.  The heat of the cavern was unbearable, and his body was drenched in sweat.  A chasm against the far wall glowed a hot orange, and he guessed that it must open onto the liquid fire of the mountain.

One thing he was certain of.  He was an Elf.  There was no doubting that fact.  Once he had known the company of other Elves, as well.  Yes!  That was what he was hiding!  Those creatures which came with each new day to wield their whips of pain wanted to know about Elves.  Where could they be found?  How many were left?  What were their weaknesses?

And he knew the answers.  A morbid laugh rose in his throat.  Yes, he knew, but he would go to his grave before he would speak one word to the foul beasts.  He was an Elf!  He could withstand any pain, any torment of the body.  If he succumbed to death, he would go to the paradise of the Halls of Mandos.  He had nothing to lose.  Perhaps that was why they were so careful not to damage him beyond endurance.  They were denying him the release of death.

The iron manacles dug into his wrists, an exquisite pain.  His dark head swung back and forth like a pendulum, hanging down to his chest.  Soon they would be back, the sniveling beasts that were so twisted they could not stand upright.  The sight of their crazed visages sent chills through him, for he recognized features like unto his own: their pointed ears, the depths of their eyes.  Yet for all their familiarity they were hideously twisted, obeying a master that clearly ruled them by terror.

A sound like he had never heard before rumbled through the chamber, and he pulled his head up on his tortured neck, glancing about, wondering what new horror was to come before him.  A heaviness pervaded the air, and with it came a pulsing wrongness, the very breath of fear.  Fiery light emanated from the lava tube that served as entryway to his cavern.  It grew more intense with each passing moment, and the Elf felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

As the dread presence grew nearer, the Elf began to struggle, thrashing against his confinement, only aware of escape.  What was coming was far beyond the foul minions that had plied their whips upon him, trying to break his will.  He found that he dreaded what would appear, and he desperately wished to close his eyes to the sight that would soon burst forth.  Yet the overwhelming power that approached refused him the right to hide his face.  Against his will, he was forced to watch as a vast form of shadow loomed into the cavern.  Darkness like the black pits of night traced the shape of a fell beast, built like a powerfully muscled man, but taller and imbued with more power than any creature the Elf had ever encountered.  Fire spewed from its mouth, and crackled with its motion.

One thought only passed through the Elf's crazed mind.  _Balrog_!

Desperate to escape, he yanked hard against his restraints, feeling the iron tear at his skin, but not caring.  The Balrog advanced upon him, the thunder of his passage reverberating through the cavern.  If he had thought it hot before, he did not know how he could survive the terrible, searing heat that now radiated from the living shadow that approached.

Not a sound passed from the dark maw that was the Balrog's mouth.  It advanced upon the thrashing Elf until it stood with its face mere inches from the frail being, harmlessly writhing against the wall of the cavern.  Knowing the power of its gaze, it forced the Elf to stare into its fiery orbs, dancing with the fierce hatred within.  At long last, it opened its jaws and roared.

The sound was like the rumblings of Orodruin, but filled with the screams of innocents, torn from life in the midst of their joy.  If the Elf could have, he would happily had ripped off his own ears, rather than be forced to endure such a sound.  As it was, he had no choice.  Against the agony of the roar, and the demented fire of the burning eyes, there was no defense.

He would do anything to make it stop.  Anything!

He began to scream, willing the Balrog to take pity on him, "I will do what you ask!  I will serve your master!  Only, please, stop the agony!  I will be your willing slave!  _Please!!!_"

The Balrog's fiery lips curled in what could have been a smile.  For long moments, the roar continued, then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was silenced.  The shadow beast took two steps back, then reached out one giant hand.  With fingers spread wide, it leaned forward, laying its searing palm full across the Elf's beautiful face.

The Elf screamed with pain as the handprint of the foul beast burned itself into his skin.  When the hand was pulled away, angry welts oozed over his nose, cheeks and forehead, in the clear shape of the Balrog's hand.

In a voice of rumbling thunder the creature spoke.  "This is the mark of my master.  Your word has been given.  You have been branded.  Your will is no longer your own.  You will serve no other master but him."  Then it turned and retreated back the way it had come, its mission accomplished.

The Elf was left sobbing uncontrollably, dangling from the iron manacles, and writhing in pain.  Before he had time to fall too deeply into despair, a new voice rang through his skull.  It was as if a storm had lodged itself with his mind, and he could no more ignore the voice than he could a lightning bolt.

"_You are mine, Caldarion_."


	12. Nurnelven

Nimoë stood perched high on the northern watchtower, her bow at the ready, staring out toward the north, where the fires of Orodruin grew ever brighter as the months wore on.  She fingered the nock bead on her bowstring, nervous, as she always was when it was her rotation on guard duty.  A cold breeze blew down from the Mountains of Shadow to the west, and she shivered.  After ten years in this place, she would have thought that such a breeze would no longer hold any fear for her, but such was not the case.

Every time the west wind blew, she was reminded of that terrible trek from Ithilien.  So many had died.  A full hundred Elves passed into the Halls of Mandos, weakened from lack of food and water, poisoned by the foul gases that ravaged the northern plains of Gorgoroth.

By the time what was left of them had reached Nurn, they could hardly place one foot in front of the other.  The dried green plains of Nurn had looked to them to be a paradise, rich in food, with water flowing in streams that were untainted.  Once they had regained their strength, however, the reality of the country was far less inviting.

Nurn was a broad plain, fertile, but only enough to grow the most meager of crops.  They had passed south to the Sea of Núrnen and, on the far western bank, where a swiftly flowing river cascaded down from the Mountains of Shadow, emptying into the vast inland sea, they had built their new home.  Núrnelven, they named it.  Place of the Elves in Nurn.

It had been an easy choice as a building site, for many rotted out ruins still remained from the time when Sauron's slave-farms had thrived there. Burned out remnants of buildings littered the shore and, while in any other time, the Elves would have shied away from them, they had proved to be invaluable.  Using the ruins as the skeletons for their own construction, they were able to shave months off of the time it would have taken to build from scratch.

When the first snows of winter had blown that first year, a mere two months after their arrival, the drifts had piled shoulder high, and the Elves had been forced to huddle together in the three buildings which remained mostly whole, using their body heat to keep each other from freezing to death.

It had been a long a perilous winter.  Legolas sent small groups out to forage for food whenever there was a break in the relentless snows, and they had not starved, although most had grown lean, their features sunken.  When the snow had melted away, the Elves had turned their attentions to the fields.  Wheat and oats grew wild in the places where the slaves of Sauron had sown them, centuries past.  It took two long years to tame the land to a state where crops could be grown in enough abundance to feed them well.  In those years, all had grown gaunt and thin.  Nimoë, who had still been growing, felt the effects more than many.  Indeed, Tinunél told her that she stopped growing early, due to malnutrition.

Now a fully mature Elf, Nimoë stood only as tall as Tinunél's nose, and her foster mother was short for an Elf.  Her stunted growth, however, had not effected her beauty.  Many of the male Elves watched her with desire, for although she did not have the classic beauty of the Elves of legend, she radiated a pureness of spirit that was tremendously alluring, especially in this place of hardship.

Nimoë was aware of their attentions, how could she not be, but she held herself aloof.  In point of fact, the only male Elves she socialized with were Legolas and Caldarion.  It seemed that the latter had finally lost his boyish infatuation with her, and they had grown close.  Through the ten long years that the Elves had resided in Núrnelven, more often than not Nimoë would be found in his company.

Nimoë smiled to herself as she thought back.  He had quickly attained a position of prestige and leadership in the colony.  With his new responsibilities came unexpected burdens, and he often came to her when he felt he could not chose the right path to follow.  Legolas trusted him implicitly, and gave him ever increasing duties, trying to spread the burden of command over someone other than himself, on the off chance that something should happen to him.  It was wiser to have a second in command groomed and ready to pull in the reins if the leader was killed.

Nimoë felt her smile fade as she gazed through the dimming light into the dark plains of Gorgoroth in the distance.  It had been three weeks since Caldarion had left for the north.  Two other Elves traveled in his company, but they were young and inexperienced.  Strange things had been happening in and around Núrnelven:  blood was found spilt in the fields, unexplainable howls echoed in the night, and one woman swore that she had surprised a strange, dark, twisted figure in her home, and only managed to scare it off by brandishing her knife at it.

Legolas and Caldarion had decided that they had to take action to find the source of the disturbances.  Nimoë hefted the solid weight of her bow in her hand.  She found that she was now glad that the Prince had insisted the women be trained in the arts of warcraft.    With so many men lost, it was vital that the women be able to defend themselves and their village.  Like it or nor, there was nowhere else for then to run.

Legolas himself had taught them how to shoot the bow.  The lessons had been a pleasure and a torment for Nimoë.  Pleasure, because Legolas was forced to lay his hands on her body, helping direct her in her stance, her grip.  She rejoiced at being in his arms, even in such an impersonal way.  Torment, because that was the only time she had been there since the terrible night they had faced death together in the forests of Ithilien.

He always went out of his way to visit.  Many times he ate his evening meal with herself and Tinunél, but always it was purely platonic.  Never once did he lay so much as a finger upon her body, although often she felt his gaze lying heavy upon her.  The nights were tense as they ate in silence, or in polite conversation.  Tinunél seemed to be withdrawn on those nights, as if trying to be forgotten, while at the same time, the simple fact of her presence made Nimoë want to scream.

A loud crash in the distance brought Nimoë swiftly back to her present surroundings.  With her heart racing, she lifted the bow and drew back the arrow, sighting down its long straight shaft towards the place where the sound originated.  Whatever was approaching made no attempt at stealth, but crashed through the underbrush as loudly as a Dwarf.

Nimoë's mind ran at top speed.  She was too far away from the village to call for help.  Whatever was out there was hers alone to deal with.  In the back of her mind she noted that she would ask Legolas to have a bell forged, that could be rung on the watchtower in times of need.  She knew that he would not deny her.

He had tried to deny her the responsibility of guard duty but, when she had reached her majority the year previously, she had overruled him.  "I am a woman grown, and I _will_ take the same responsibilities as the others.  You cannot protect me forever, Legolas."

He had bowed his head in acknowledgement, but she could see in his eyes that he rebelled against the thought with every fiber of his body.  Right at the present moment, she found that she wished she had listened to his words.  She would rather be anywhere else than standing with her bow pointed at an unknown foe.  Although she had proven an apt shot, she felt somehow wrong using a weapon of war.  Her skin crawled at the thought of taking life.  She was a healer!  It was her place to save lives.

Abruptly a tall figure broke into view.  He staggered a few more steps, then crashed to the ground.  Nimoë stared down in amazement, recognizing the once proud figure of her friend.  "Caldarion!" she breathed, in shocked horror.

Abandoning her bow, she flew down the ancient steps of the watchtower, one of the few buildings left from the time of Sauron that were still used.  She crossed the ground to his side in moments, then rolled him onto his back.  His clothes were tattered and blood seeped through the fabric from his back and chest.

The most frightening thing was his face.  Bruises and cuts were everywhere, rendering him almost unrecognizable through the swelling welts of black and blue.  Yet more terrible still was the angry burn that covered most of the top of his face.  Scabbed skin hung crusted over oozing sores, and his eyes did not seem to truly see her.

Nimoë felt tears of shock and fright creep into her eyes, and she yanked him mercilessly to his feet, knowing that he was in desperate need of the medicines in the new Healing House.  "Come, Caldarion.  You've got to come with me.  Here, lean your weight on my shoulders.  That's right.  Now one foot in front of the other.  I'll get you home.  Don't be afraid…"

She kept up her litany of platitudes, as much to soothe herself as him, for he did not seem to hear her.  Once they had staggered within shouting distance of the village, Nimoë began to scream, "Help me!  Somebody help me!"

Several women came running at her hysterical cry.  Between them they lifted the beaten Elf and carried him the last distance to the Healing House.  Tinunél leapt up as they entered, and motioned them to lay Caldarion on an empty cot.  Even that small motion brought a groan to his lips, but it also brought back some of his awareness.

He reached out and grabbed Nimoë's arm with frighteningly strong fingers.  "Legolas," he gasped.  "I must speak to Legolas…"

She nodded frantically.  As soon as his painful grip relaxed, she ran from the Healing House, as fast as her feet would carry her towards the archery fields, where the Prince would be teaching some of the younger girls to shoot.

Nimoë rounded the bend and almost cried with relief when she saw he was indeed there.  He was immediately aware of her, and he told the child he was working with to wait, then walked quickly towards the quaking woman.

"Nimoë, what is amiss?!" he asked, deeply concerned.

She reached out to grasp his upper arm.  "Please, Legolas, you must come with me.  It's Caldarion.  He's come back and…"  Tears overwhelmed her, and she found she could no longer speak.  Instead she yanked Legolas after her, and he ran at her side, apprehension rising in his heart.  Something was terribly wrong.

They reached the door of the Healing House, and she paused, afraid to see her friend's tortured face again.  "He is asking for you, Legolas."

Seeing Nimoë in distress always made him tremble, and he reached out a soft hand to brush her cheek.  "I will see to him, Nimoë.  Everything will be alright."  Then he turned and entered the Healing House, leaving her alone in the falling darkness.


	13. Passion and Flame

Unsure of what to do, Nimoë stood for a long moment with her back leaned up against the solid wall of the Healing House, afraid that her knees would buckle.  What could have happened to Caldarion?  And what about the two who had left Núrnelven in his company?

That uncomfortable thought brought Nimoë up short.  The watchtower!  She had left it unmanned.  Leaving Caldarion in the expert hands of her foster mother, and under the watchful eye of Legolas, the young Elf turned on her heel and walked quickly back through the deepening dusk.

The familiar looming shapes of the crops growing in the fields seemed to take on a new and frightening aspect.  Something dread was loose in the world, and it had been stronger than Caldarion.  Only one person was stronger than her dear friend, and that was Legolas.  Nimoë shivered and walked more quickly, almost at a slow jog, for it seemed that the looming shapes were moving closer, seeking to subsume her into their darkness.

An unearthly howl rose in the night, far to the north.  The cry was piercing, chilling.  There was no creature that Nimoë could name whose throat could produce such a sound.  Dropping all pretense at bravery, Nimoë sprinted the last long meters to the base of the ancient watchtower.  Her feet flew as she climbed the twisting stair to the relative safety of the high perch.

Once she reached the top, she grabbed her bow off of the floorboards, where she had dropped it earlier, and drew an arrow, her eyes darting through the blackness of the moonless night, the bow pointing frantically from one tiny sound to the next.  Her arms shook, and her breathing was erratic.

Curse her cowardice!  Once it was clear that nothing was immediately approaching, ready to tear her to shreds, she lowered the bow and leaned her weight forward on her hands, against the rail of the tower.  With her head bent down, she tried to calm her harried nerves, but it was a losing battle.  Something had nearly killed Caldarion!  Likely it was still out there, somewhere in the darkness.  Whether it was near or far was a mystery, but the unknown menace ate into her heart.

A full hour later, the night was still and quiet, and Nimoë had managed to bring herself back to some semblance of calm.  She stared out into the north with her clear grey eyes, watching the red fires of Orodruin glow fiercely in the distance.  It seemed that the mountain was growing more active.  Several times, as she watched, giant fountains of liquid red flame spewed forth from the high summit, lighting the darkness with a sullen orange glow.

A hand on her shoulder nearly made her leap from the heights.  A scream was forced from her throat and she spun about, tripping ungracefully over her own feet.  She would have fallen then, but a familiar pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around her, pulling her close into a firm embrace.

"Hush, Nimoë.  It is only me," spoke Legolas.  His approach had been so silent that she had heard nothing.

For a moment she stood shaking in his arms, then she pushed back from him, her hands against his chest.  "Don't you _ever_ sneak up on me like that!" she cried, angry at having been given such a terrible fright.  With one small fist she punched him hard in the chest, to emphasize her point.

At any other time, Legolas would have been greatly amused by her outburst, but his conversation with Caldarion pushed all other thoughts out of his mind.  Taking her shoulders firmly in his hands, he said, "Nimoë, I want you to go back to the village.  I will take this watch."

Irritation at having been caught unawares made Nimoë bristle, and she took out her pent up fear and anger on Legolas.  "Why?  I am perfectly capable of keeping my assigned duties.  I will see them through.  Of course, I would be happy to have company, but I will not go back to the city.  Why do you always treat me like a child?"

Legolas was taken aback by the force of her attack.  "Nimoë, I am very serious.  I want you back in Núrnelven."

"And I am telling you that I will not go."  She pulled herself out of his grasp, and stood to her full height, which was less than formidable.

Frustrated, Legolas turned and leaned out over the railing.  "Why will you not let me protect you?" he asked, tense emotion in his voice.

Nimoë felt tears spring into her eyes.  Always he was trying to take care of her, but that was not what she wanted from him.  Not all, at any rate.  Her heart ached to belong to this charismatic leader of the Elves, but he seemed to only see her as a child, never as a woman.  His attentions were always so careful, as if he did not want to encourage her yearning heart.

With angry tears held tight within her, she begged, "Why do you feel you must?  I am a woman grown, Legolas, not a waif to be tended to.  I passed that stage long ago.  Why can you not see it?"

Unable to hold back for another moment, Legolas released the railing and caught her upper arms, squeezing harder than he should with the intensity of his worry and love long repressed.  His ice blue eyes bored into her, and she squirmed in his grasp, suddenly afraid of him.  "You truly do not understand, do you?  By Ilúvatar, Nimoë!  Do you think that I seek to keep you safe because I think you a child?  I know better than any that you are a woman.  I watch you every day, aching to hold you close to me.  Your beauty is my sunshine, Nimoë.  Your voice is my lifeblood.  I protect you because I am in love with you!  Do you not see it?!"  His voice grew more intense, more impassioned as the words came rushing from the very depths of his soul.

As soon as the words were spoken, he wanted to bite them back.  He had sworn to himself that he would not try to influence the girl.  She would love him or not, and when her memories returned, he did not want her to be able to accuse him of tampering with her growth.  So for all the long years she had dwelt within the Colony he had held himself aloof, behaving towards her like a loving uncle, and nothing more.

He dropped his eyes, afraid to meet the rejection he expected to find her cloud-filled eyes.  For an agonizing eternity she made no sound.  Then, in a voice so small that he could barely hear it, she whispered, "You… love me?"

The joyous disbelief her heard in her soft voice brought his eyes up to hers before he could stop himself.  In her lovely face was amazement and welcome.  With trembling fingers he reached out and stroked the soft curve of her cheek.  "More than life itself.  You are my world."

The simplicity with which he made his unexpected declaration swept away all lingering doubt in Nimoë's mind.  She brought her hand up to capture the fingers which grazed over her face.  She pulled them down to her lips and pressed a trembling kiss upon them.  Then she bowed her head over their joined hands.  "Legolas, I have loved you for as long as I can remember.  You are the most honorable, heroic, wonderful man I have ever known.  How you can love a lowly healer's daughter I do not understand, but this is the greatest gift I could ever receive."  One small joyous tear fell from her eye and splashed on their intertwined fingers.

After so many centuries of agonized waiting, Legolas felt as though his heart would erupt like the fires of Orodruin.  Every song that had ever been sung seemed to burst upon his consciousness, with the power of a thousand voices raise high.  She loved him!  Even before her memories returned to her!  Unable to hold himself in check, he pulled her tight against her his body, placing a crushing kiss upon her upturned lips.

His hands clutched her desperately, trying to reassure himself that she was real, that this was not some fevered dream.  But no!  His beloved Nimoë was wrapping her small arms about his neck, threading innocent fingers through his long hair, returning his kiss with equal passion.

Schooling himself to reason, he pulled back.  This was no time to be distracted by his swelling heart or burning body.  Caldarion had made it very clear that a fearsome evil was loose, and likely making its way towards Núrnelven.  Why was it that love and danger always seemed to come at the same time for them?  Could they never have a time of peace?  A time that could be wholly dedicated to the joys of soft caresses and whispered words of love?

Seeing the sadness that stirred in her eyes as he pulled away, he bent forward and laid one last kiss on her passion-bruised lips.  This kiss was soft and gentle, like the brush of a snowflake grazing against skin on its way to the earth.  The innocence of it was almost more intoxicating than the crushing joining of mouths which he had first pressed upon her.

"Oh, Nimoë," he moaned.  "You must go.  Please…  If you remain here I cannot keep my mind focused on the dangers of the night.  Your beauty is like a flame, and I am a moth, which cannot leave well enough alone.  Go to Caldarion.  He needs the reassurance of a friend.  Leave me to guard your back.  Just go."

Although her heart rebelled at the thought of leaving him, just as her wildest dreams had been realized, she knew that she could not refuse.  She nodded, reluctantly.  "I will go.  Please, Legolas, will you find me when the watch is done?  Until I see you again, I will be thinking that this must have been a dream.  Please do not leave me lost and lonely," she begged.

With his fingers buried full into the silken moonlight of her hair, he pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her brow.   "You will never be alone, Nimoë.  I am always with you.  It matters not if we are near or far, I live always within you, as you are within me."  He pushed her away then, directing her towards the twisting stair.  "I love you.  Go quickly."

With only one last pause, to bend and pick up her bow, Nimoë turned and fled down the stair.  Legolas watched her run through the wheat fields, graceful as a deer, as long as the night would allow him to see.  Once she was gone, he pulled his eyes to the north, where Orodruin greeted him by sending up a new burst of liquid flame.

Caldarion's tale resonated in his mind as he stared out at the living embodiment of evil on the face of Middle-Earth.  Under his breath he swore, in a voice of cold steel,  "You will not take my people from me.  We will survive.  We will reach the shores of Valinor, and we will wreak revenge upon you.  Valar or no, we will fight you to the end.  The hearts of Men are easily corrupted, but you will find the Eldar to be made of much sterner stuff.  You will regret the day you chose us as your enemy."


	14. Evil Revealed

Author's Note:  Alright… I have done oodles of research for this chapter, but I am still not certain that I am not treading on some bit of canon history.  Where I have been unable to find a history, I have chosen to write my own.  If this has to be labeled AU, so be it.  I hope that it is not.  I am truly trying to stay as true to what is out there as I can.  Yet, I can only find so much.  Please don't hurt me if I have done something that is not completely in keeping with the later history of Middle Earth.  Just go with it, and hopefully this will make for an exciting story. ;-P  Also, for those who don't know, Ilúvatar/Eru are one and the same, the creator of Arda.

Her heart filled to bursting, Nimoë fled all the way back to the Healing House.  No longer did the dark shapes of the crops fill her with fear and dread.  Legolas loved her!  It hardly seemed real, but the heavy swollen feeling of her lips proved beyond a doubt that the interlude had not been a figment of her imagination.

When she reached the door of the Healing House, which was wrought of a wood that was unrecognizable to her, the other startling reality of the night came crashing down on her.  Caldarion!  What would she find inside? Was he still truly Caldarion, her steadfast friend and companion?  Or had his brutal treatment changed him in some vital way?

She drew a breath to steady herself.  No way to know but to face the scene that was hidden behind the door, and no reason to hesitate.  She pushed open the heavy wood, and stepped into the large room, which was illuminated by three long tapers, flickering in sconces spaced evenly along the long back wall.  They lent an eerie glow of dancing gold to the room and in the dim light Nimoë tiptoed towards the cot where Caldarion was lying.

Tinunél sat over him, bathing his burned face with healing herbs, which wafted on the cool night air.  Nimoë saw that the young Elf slept, and she settled herself in a chair next to her mother.  "Will he recover?"

Tinunél shook her ash blonde head slowly.  "I do not know.  He has many injuries, some internal, and I can only guess the extent of them.  Normally I would say that an Elf who had sustained such grievous hurt would have one chance in two of surviving.  But it is Caldarion, so perhaps his odds are slightly better."

Nimoë took her friend's long, tapered fingers in her hand.  Of all of his body, they were among the few things not damaged.  Speaking to her mother, she asked, "Did you hear what he said to Legolas?"

"Only bits and pieces.  He insisted on being private, but I could not help but overhear some of it.  I know that he was held captive, and that Jeran and Irenwë were killed.  What else I heard was so bizarre that I cannot help but wonder if it was a hallucination that he suffered.  He spoke of a demon of fire, the bowels of Mount Doom, and the nine rings of mortal Men.  I did not understand what little I heard."

Tinunél finished her work on Caldarion's burn, and turned to face her daughter.  "Whatever he said, it clearly upset Legolas.  He ran from this place, telling me that he was off to find you, and to send you back to the city.  I can see that he succeeded, although I am surprised you abandoned your post.  He must have done something spectacular indeed to convince you to return,"  Tinunél raised her arched eyebrow, turning the statement into a question.

Nimoë dropped her eyes, blushing a furious red.  "He told me that he is in love with me."

Abruptly, Tinunél's face was suffused with a huge grin of relief.  "Well, it is about time!"

Nimoë's grey eyes flashed to her mother's face.  "You knew?!"

"I think that everyone in Núrnelven knew, except for you.  You truly are an innocent, child."  The older Elf reached out and pulled her amazed foster daughter into her arms.  "You return his love, or I am sorely mistaken.  I wish you joy in your life together, although I fear there will be little time to enjoy it."

"Nimoë," came a quiet, strained voice from the cot.  "Is that you?"

Immediately extracting herself from Tinunél's embrace, Nimoë leaned over Caldarion, softly brushing his matted hair back from his mangled face.  "Yes, sweet Caldarion.  It is me.  You are safe."

His deep brown eyes opened wide to stare up at her, and the haunted gaze pierced her through.  "We will never be safe, Nimoë.  Never."

She shook her head, denying his words, "Do not say such things.  No matter what has happened to you, we will not let it happen again.  Legolas will keep us all safe.  Trust in him."

He reached out and grabbed her wrists in a painful, vise-like grasp.  His wild eyes seemed to protrude from his head.  "You do not understand, child!  There is great danger!  For you more than…"  His speech was suddenly cut off by a strangled gurgle.  The ashen skin of his face turned a startling purplish blue.

Immediately, Tinunél and Nimoë lifted him into a sitting position, hoping to aid him in breathing.  Gasping like a drowning man, he grated, "Nimoë, you must take care…  I fear for…"  Then an agonized scream was wrenched from him and his entire body arched in twisting pain, muscles cramped in clenched knots.

"Nimoë, get out of here!  I do not understand why, but your presence is more than he can handle," directed Tinunél, as she tried to soothe the writhing Elf.

Completely distraught, Nimoë fled the Healing House, the screams of Caldarion chasing after her on the cold breeze.  What was wrong with Caldarion?  And why was he trying to warn her?  They were all in danger, weren't they?  At a full run, she raced up the starlit shore of the Sea of Núrnen.  She did not pause until she reached the eastern edge of Núrnelven.  There she flung herself down on the sandy shore and wrapped her arms about her knees, burying her head in the hollow of her arms.

The night had been full of too many things, both wonderful and terrible.  Holding tight to herself she rocked back and forth, trying to sort out her conflicting emotions.  Foremost in her mind was the image of Caldarion's body, prostrate with pain, trying to warn her against something.  What?  There was no way to know, for it seemed that speaking of it inexplicably multiplied his suffering.

Seeing her dearest friend in such a state shook her to the core.  She felt completely helpless and lost.  Although she was a skilled healer of the body, it seemed clear that Caldarion's wounds were sorest upon his spirit, and she knew not how to help him.  Silent tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she sat staring out over the vast waters of the inland sea, seeing nothing but the tortured body of Caldarion.  In her mind's eye, the angry burn upon his face began to blaze with a deep scarlet glow and darkness hovered over him like a specter of death.

How long she sat there, mindless of her surroundings, she did not know, but when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, she fell back into the familiar firm embrace with no hesitation.  "What is to become of us, Legolas?" she whispered, needing reassurance.  Needing his strength more than anything.

He pulled her back against his chest, holding her close with one arm, while with the other he stroked her hair softly, delighting in the silky caress, all the while feeling the press of a future un-seeable, but assuredly bleak.  "I do not know, Nimoë.  All that I do know is that we will face it together.  Tinunél told me what happened with Caldarion.  Do you have any idea what he was trying to tell you?"

He felt her head shake in the negative against his chest, and she seemed to shrink in upon herself at the memory of her meeting with the dark-haired Elf.  Wishing that there were some way to take away her pain, to give her honest reassurance, Legolas sighed and wrapped both arms all about her, enfolding her completely within the caged strength of his body.

"Legolas, what did he tell you?" she asked, although she was afraid of the answer.

Legolas looked up into the star-filled sky.  So many pure lights, sparkling in hues of white and blue, like the very eyes of heaven.  _Ai! Elbereth!_ _If there is so much purity in the world, how can such a vital evil make its way back into the realms of the living?  Why must I be the one to face it?_

Out loud he spoke, "How much do you know of the history of the Third Age?  Do you know of the Nazgul?"

She nodded, "Of course I do.  Everyone knows of the nine mortal kings who bore the rings of Men.  They were the servants of Sauron, bound to his will, not living, yet not dead.  A dread blight on this world."

"That is right.  Caldarion has told me things that concern me deeply.  He was captured and brought north to Orodruin.  There he was kept in captivity, chained and tortured.  He stayed strong until the final evil came to him.  There is a Balrog dwelling there, Nimoë, one of the most fearsome servants of Melkor, Morgoth as he was called by Fëanor.  The burn that you see upon Caldarion's face was inflicted by the mere touch of the beast.

"While he was in contact with the creature of flame he learned much.  More, perhaps than it was meant for him to know.  It seems that when Sauron passed from this world the Nazgul were lost, directionless.  The Witch-King had been slain, but since he was not truly alive, his soul did not depart like that of mortal Men.  He was called back into the Void.  There he was caught in the sticky web of Morgoth.  Men are weak, and easily swayed.  Once he was ensnared, he called the other Nazgul to him.  Soon all of the nine were in the power of Morgoth.  He controls the Nine Rings of Mortal Men, and has rekindled their power with his own malice.  With them he can command their feeble minds.  They will soon obey his every whim.

"We are lucky.  Thus far he has not been able to break his way out of the Void.  Only through his minions, like the Balrog, is he able to work directly on Middle-Earth.  Yet already are the minds of Men poisoned against all the other children of Ilúvatar, especially the Elves, the firstborn.  Ever has Morgoth sought to wrest the creations of Eru into his own pattern.  That has not changed from the beginning of time.  It seems that with the Nine in his power, he feels the time is ripe to act."

Nimoë pulled away from his embrace, turning to face him, her hands curled in the fabric of his tunic.  "Legolas, you mean to tell me that the very embodiment of evil wishes to wipe us from the face of Middle-Earth?"

He nodded.  "That is what Caldarion learned during the time of contact with the Balrog.  It may be that we will be very grateful that he was so branded.  It seems too much suffering for any one man, but the early warning may be our saving grace."

"No," she whispered.  Then, more strongly, "No!"  She leapt to her feet, and moved without knowing where she went to the very edge of the lapping sea.  "Why?  Why does such an evil come now?!  How can we fight the fallen Valar?  Compared to him, Sauron was a child!  We are doomed!"

"Nay, not doomed.  Hard pressed, indeed, but never doomed.  Against all odds was Sauron defeated.  Surely it can be done again.  We must seek out the Dwarves.  As the adopted children of Ilúvatar, Morgoth will rise against them as well.  They will join with us, I think."

Nimoë did not turn to look at him when she asked, "Are not Men also children of Eru?  Yet Morgoth will leave them alive?"

"If he can shape them to his own ways, I believe that he will.  He does not wish to have dominion over a place empty of followers.  Never did I think that I would say this, after all the harm that Men have wrought on the Elves in recent years, but I pity them.  We must find a way to stop Morgoth, not only for ourselves, but for Men as well, for they cannot help themselves."

Nimoë felt hot tears stream down her face as she thought back on the burned out husk of her home in Mirkwood; the blackened and broken body of her father which she had never seen, but knew must have been there; on Mendiel, her birth mother, and her death at the brutal hands of Men; and lastly on the burning of Ithilien and the death of so countless many Elves, her foster father and others, good friends and true.  Her shoulders shook with rage and hopelessness.

"After all that they have done, you still want to help them?!" she asked, in a voice full of suppressed rage and sorrow.  "Every hurt in my life has been at the hands of Men.  I do not pity them.  I hate them."  She turned to face him, and Legolas saw the starlight twinkling off of the tears that fell unchecked down her heart-shaped face.  "I hate them!  And now that I hear this tale, I hate myself it.  What am I to think?!  What am I to do?!"

Legolas rose to his feet and crossed the ground between them in a few scant strides, pulling her tight in his arms, rocking her like a child.  "Nimoë, Nimoë.  I understand.  I do.  But once there was a time when Men and Elves were allies and friends.  It may be that some time you will find that Men can be, and have been, your friends.  Please trust me.  We must do all in our power.  Will you follow me?  Will you put aside your hatred for now?"

She sobbed against his shoulder, lost in her own confusion.  At last, she nodded.  "I love you.  I will do what you ask.  But know that this is no easy thing.  I will not pity them, now or ever, but I will try to save them from slavery.  No being deserves to have his will stripped from him, especially by the living lord of evil.  No one deserves to live such a life."

He pressed a kiss to her brow.  "Good girl.  I knew you would not disappoint me.  Will you come back to the city now?  You cannot return to your home in the Healing House, but you can rest well enough in my bed."

Her eyes flashed up to his in shock, and in the midst of the oppressive aura of danger, he actually laughed.  "Not like that, Nimoë!  I will sleep on the floor in the entry hall.  Do not fear for your safety with me.  I will keep you safe from everything, including myself."

She nodded, angrily wiping the last tears from her eyes.  "I will come.  Thank you, Legolas."

With his arm around her waist to guide her, for she walked as if in a dream, a nightmare, Legolas led Nimoë back to his home in the city.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to decide on a plan of action.  No denizens of evil had been seen anywhere nearby, and Legolas allowed himself to believe that their immediate safety was not in peril.

Gazing down at the moon-pale head that rested against his shoulder he felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over him.  So gentle!  So innocent and pure!  He would do anything to keep her from the clutches of Morgoth and his minions.  Again, Legolas looked up into the starry, starry night, and he muttered a silent prayer to Elbereth, begging for direction, for some flash of inspiration as to how to go about the defense of Middle-Earth.


	15. Elfsong

Legolas led Nimoë through the dark night to his dwelling.  It was not as large as him home in Ithilien had been.  There was only the bedroom, a small room that he used as a study, and the entry hall.  In Núrnelven, the kitchens, dining areas, and other necessary places, were in communal buildings, to make use of existing structures.  Sauron had not much cared for the privacy of his slaves.

He pulled open the door and guided her through into his sleeping chamber.  His bed pallet was low, but soft, and she fell into it gratefully, burrowing into the downy depths.  Legolas pulled the worn coverlet over her, and she snuggled it to her chin, for now that she was out of the cold night, her body began to shiver with the chill that she had been able to ignore until she was warm again.

Squatting down to his heels at the bedside, he took her hand in his.  "Rest, Nimoë.  Tomorrow could prove to be the first of many long days.  I am going to check on Caldarion before I rest, but I will return quickly.  If you need me, I will be in the hall."  So saying, he pulled two spare blankets from a large chest at the foot of the bed.  "I will be silent, so as not to wake you."

She squeezed his hand gratefully.  "Thank you, Legolas.  For everything."

"It is nothing."  With a last kiss on her brow, he rose.  "Sleep.  I will return."

When he left his door, he smiled.  No matter what else was wrong in the world, it felt so incredible right knowing that Nimoë was lying in his bed, in his home.  It was where she belonged.  The Healing House was not far from his residence and he covered the distance in a few quick minutes, for he wished to complete his task with all possible speed.  He did not like leaving Nimoë alone, even though Núrnelven was well guarded and there would surely be a warning if danger came near.

Through the windows of the Healing House he could see the lights of the candles still flickering, and he pushed open the door.  Tinunél beckoned to him from her place at Caldarion's bedside.  "Legolas!  He has been asking for you again."

The Elf Prince strode briskly to his young protégé's side.  His burn was still angry and red, but his color was improving.  "Caldarion, I am here.  What did you wish to say to me?"

The younger Elf's deep brown eyes opened and regarded him.  Tinunél handed the injured Elf a goblet of water, and helped him sit to drink it down.  When all the water was gone, Caldarion licked what drops remained off of his parched lips.  "My Prince," he began, in a cracked voice, "There is something vital that I was not able tell you when we last spoke, before I lost consciousness."

Legolas sat on the edge of the bed and nodded encouragingly, "What is it?"

Caldarion did not begin immediately.  A strange succession of emotions seemed to flash across his marred face: fear, hesitation, pain and, lastly, resolution akin to compulsion.  "There is a place within the deep bowels of Orodruin; an opening, a portal.  It is that place where Morgoth is able to send his will through the Void and into Middle-Earth.  If we can seal this chasm, then we can end the threat."

Legolas' eyes lit up as if from within.  "You speak truth?  There is a chance?!"

Caldarion nodded, pressing on with his words.  "I learned this when the Balrog marked me.  Morgoth fears it, and so the idea was near the forefront of the creature's mind.  But it will not be easy.  This is no natural chasm, to be filled with stones, or sealed with strong boards.  It leads directly to the Void.  Any thing that falls within it will never stop falling.  An eternity of fear and suffering will be the doom of any man that passes through."

Caldarion reached out with desperate hands, grabbing at Legolas' tunic.  "Legolas, I have learned what can accomplish this dread task.  Only one with the power of the Elfsong can accomplish this goal.  One wielding this strength could, possibly, force the very rocks to shift their form, to grow together, effectively imprisoning the Dark Lord once again.  The Balrog was very clear in his mind that this was what Morgoth fears.  One must be found who possesses this strength.  It is the only chance of stopping him!"

Legolas felt something vital die within him.  No!  It could not be!  Only one living creature left in Middle-Earth could harness the power of the Elfsong, a gift left ages ago by the Ainur themselves, after they sang the world into existence.  The mysterious strength manifested itself, seemingly at whim, only once in an age.  And the one who bore it now was his own beloved.

No!  He could not ask her to take such a terrible risk.  Especially as she was untrained.  If her memories had returned, and she could call upon what she had learned in her last incarnation, then she might stand a chance, but as it was…

"You are certain of this, Caldarion?  There is no other way?"  Legolas felt a strong grip on his forearm looked up to see Tinunél clinging desperately to him, fear written plainly on her face.  She knew.  Not long after their arrival at Núrnelven she had confronted him about Nimoë, and her relationship to the lady who had followed the Fellowship.  He had been forced to reveal the truth about her foster daughter; both about her history and her power, for it was the Elfsong that she had used to call the Eagle.

Even to him the Elfsong was a mystery, an enigma.  After Nimoë's death at the hands of Grima Wormtongue, and Galadriel's unexpected revelation that she would live again, he had sought information from the Lady, hoping to gain some insight into the strange power that resided within his beloved.  Galadriel herself possessed the Elfsong, but not to the extent that Nimoë could wield it.  The Lady had admitted to being somewhat afraid of the strength of the maiden, that she had sought to restrain her learning, hoping that with maturity would come the discretion to use the power wisely.

It was entirely possible that she could wield enough strength to make the very earth change its formation.  The question was whether she would live to see the work completed.

"Legolas," spoke Caldarion, pleadingly,  "These were the very thoughts of Morgoth.  You must find one who can do this thing, and you must move with all haste.  Every day his hold in this world grows stronger!"

The light of the candle glow suddenly seemed insignificant and Legolas felt the dark shadows of the night crashing down around him.  He dropped his head down into his hands, his body shaking with reaction, unwilling to accept that Nimoë held the fate of Middle-Earth in her small hands.  How could such an innocent be the one that would save them all?

Yet, had not Frodo been the most unlikely of heroes?  And he had succeeded.  His life had been irrevocably changed, but he had succeeded and bought many hundreds of years of peace for his world.

Tinunél's soft voice echoed in his ear, urgent and pleading.  "Legolas, you cannot do it!  You cannot send her to that terrible place!  A Balrog guards the way, and there is no telling what other evils may lie hidden there.  It would be like sending a lamb to the slaughter!"

Angrily, he shook her hand off of his shoulder where it had rested.  "Do not lecture me, Tinunél!  I am well aware of the dangers.  I love her!  How could I do such a thing?  Yet I love my people, and all the other creations of Ilúvatar, so how can I not ask her to take the risk?"  He raised his hands skyward in a gesture of frustration and fear.  "If there is no other way…"

Caldarion nodded wildly, "It is the only way.  Nimoë must go.  And hurry!"

Legolas paused and stared down at him suspiciously.  "When did I mention Nimoë's name?  Is there something more that you are not telling me?"

"No… No!  I only guessed, My Prince!  The way the two of you spoke, I guessed that it would be Nimoë."  His hands waved about, as if grasping at the air.  "And when she called the Eagle…  Surely that was the Elfsong?  I know nothing else!  I am hiding nothing from you!"

Legolas felt the rush of suspicion drop from him, leaving him empty and with a weight of guilt upon him.  This was his friend, and what he said was true.  There was no reason to distrust him.  "Peace, Caldarion.  I believe you.  It is your right to know.  Nimoë does carry the power of the Elfsong within her, but it is untrained.  There has been none to teach her.  If she chooses to accept this charge, for I will not order her to it, then she will go with all the guard that we can provide.  I will not send her alone and unprotected."

Caldarion nodded.  "I will go with you.  I have seen the way.  I can lead you in secrecy.  Surprise may be our only chance."

"You are sorely injured, Caldarion.  You should not be about," admonished Tinunél.

The young Elf fixed her with a stern gaze.  "Nimoë is my friend.  I will not abandon her to her fate.  Do all that you can for me, Tinunél, for I will leave with the others."

Tinunél looked to Legolas for support in her cause but, to her dismay, he said, "So be it.  I will speak with Nimoë.  If she is agreeable, we will leave in two days time.  Do your best, Healer.  Caldarion's knowledge may be what saves your child."

Caldarion watched as his Prince left the Healing House.  It was done.  The trap had been set.  He wanted to scream.  He wanted to run after Legolas; to shake him by the shoulders and make him see the warning in his eyes.  He wanted more than anything that he could have died at the hands of the Balrog, rather than suffer as he did now.  Curse his weakness!  Curse his fear!  And now it was too late.  The plan was in motion, and no way to call it back.

So he did the one thing that the fell compulsion in his mind would allow him to do.

He wept.


	16. The Return of Life

Legolas returned to his dwelling with a heavy heart.  Nothing ever seemed to go his way.  Now that he finally had the chance of happiness, he was forced to risk losing it all again.  He pulled open his door and moved silently through the dark entryway to the door of his sleeping chamber.

What he saw when he pushed in the door stole his very breath.  Nimoë was asleep with her face bathed in moonlight, which shone in through an open window, giving her an unearthly glow.  Her pale hair was spread across the pillows like a blanket of silk and her lips were slightly parted, an achingly beautiful invitation.

Reluctant to rouse her from such peaceful slumbers, Legolas carefully settled himself on the side of the bed.  For long minutes he simply watched her, drinking in the sight of his beloved, feeling the slight shift of the bed as she breathed deeply, aching to kiss her awake, to feel the tremble of her body as she responded to his caresses.

But it was not the time for such things.  When the urgency of his errand overwhelmed him, he ceased his reverent vigil.  Bending down, he placed a soft kiss upon her parted lips, breathing in the warm scent of her.

Nimoë stirred, twisting in a languid stretch, but did not waken, so Legolas deepened the kiss, running his hand through the silken length of her hair.  Her grey eyes flashed open, and she smiled.  He pulled back immediately, but she reached out her hand to stay his escape, wrapping her arms about him.

He allowed her to capture him with her innocent kisses, and he dropped down to lie next to her, enfolding her in his arms, stroking his hands up and down the length of her back.  He felt her press herself closer against his firm body, and a small moan of longing rose from her throat.

That noise brought him back to reality and he gently pulled himself away, placing a soft finger on her seeking lips.  "Nimoë, we must stop.  This is not right."

"Not right?  I have never felt something more perfect in my life."  She reached out and stroked the sensitive tip of his ear, and he groaned.

With urgent fingers he pulled her hand away.  "Do not torment me so, Nimoë.  If you continue to touch me, I do not know if I will be able to hold myself in check."  Much as he hated to admit it, what he said was true.  After so many centuries of waiting for his love, his body was as taut as a bowstring, aching to be released.

Firmly, he pulled himself away, sitting with his back against the wall.  Nimoë looked up at him in disappointment and there was a clear look of confusion on her face.  "I do not understand, Legolas.  What could be wrong with kissing you?"

He shook his head in confoundment.  "You truly are an innocent.  Trust me when I tell you that some day soon, I will explain more fully.  For now I need you to listen to me carefully.  Do you remember the day when you summoned the Eagle?"

She nodded.  "Of course.  How could I forget the day you risked your life for me?  It was the day I first knew that I loved you."

_Must she be so tempting?_  How could he resist her when her every word stirred longing within him.  Sternly, he pulled his thoughts away from the sweet knowledge of her confession.  "Do you remember how you did it?"

A strange shadow passed over her features.  "I sang.  Legolas, I was so afraid.  A strange compulsion came over me and I knew what I needed to do.  I have never felt anything like it.  My voice was not my own, and I felt power running through my body like a rushing river.  I could hardly control it…" She shuddered, and a look of such confusion swept over her that Legolas pulled her up to sit beside him, wrapped safe in his arms.

"Nimoë, love, I have things that I need you to know.  I do not want you to be afraid.  Know now that I will always keep you safe, or I will die trying."

She nodded, burrowing her head into his shoulder.  "I know," she said simply.

With one last squeeze, he began, "The power that you used is called the Elfsong.  You have always had the ability within you.  Remember you told me once that when you wanted something badly enough, your song seemed to bring it to pass?  You were right.  The Elfsong is a powerful tool.  I have not encouraged you in its use, as there is none who can train you, but now I fear that I must ask you to use it."

"But, Legolas, I do not know how!  What do you want me to do with it?"

So Legolas related to her the tale told by Caldarion, watching as she shrank further and further inside herself.  By the time his tale was done, Nimoë had pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them, as if she were trying to fold herself into invisibility.  Her grey eyes were as wide as a doe's and she stared up at him over her crossed arms.

For many moments she did not respond, only stared.  Then, in a tiny voice, so small he could hardly hear her, she whispered, "Me?"

"I am so sorry, Nimoë.  I would not ask this of you if there was any other way.  You know that, don't you?"

She nodded slowly.  "I know it."  Then she looked up into his clear blue gaze beseechingly.  "Why Legolas?  I never wanted this kind of responsibility.  I only want to live my life in peace.  I want to laugh!  I want to smile!"  She swallowed on a convulsive sob.  "Most of all, I want to share the rest of my days with you."

Unable to restrain himself, Legolas pulled her around in front of him.  "No matter what happens, you will spend the rest of your days with me.  I will never let you go.  Never."  His voice was fierce, and his fingers dug painfully into her upper arms.  In an urgent whisper, he swore it again, "Never!"

Then he brought his lips down hard upon hers, and she was drowning.  Drowning in the depth of emotion that swept through her like a tidal wave, sweeping away reason, blocking out all fear.  She clung to him as if he were the only branch in the floodwaters of her need.

In the warmth and passion of his embrace, she was able to forget the doom which had fallen over her, and she surrendered to him wholly.  Her fingers twined themselves tightly into his long hair, pulling him ever closer, wanting the taste of him on her lips.  His breath caught in his throat, and she felt her heart race, realizing the strength of emotion that she caused in her Prince.

His hands reached out to trace her cheeks and he was startled to find tears there.  He pulled back, allowing the silver wetness to roll down onto his fingertip.  "Nimoë," he whispered, "Are you alright?  Have I frightened you?"

She shook her head in denial, unable to stop the tears of love that seeped from her eyes.  "Nothing you could do would frighten me, Legolas.  It is just that this seems so very right…  Like I should remember it.  As if I have been here before…"

Time stopped moving for Legolas.  _Could she be remembering?_  He leaned in and kissed away the tears that marred her perfect features.  His lips were achingly soft, and Nimoë shuddered.

"Please, Legolas.  Please kiss me again."

Only too happy to oblige, he took her mouth with fervent lips.  Nimoë's body seemed to be tingling, every nerve sensitized, and she trembled against him.  Sensations that she had never felt before, but were oddly familiar, radiated through her, and when his hands moved down, stroking her side down to her waist, she moaned.

Unable to hold himself back, Legolas raised himself onto his knees, bending his head to trace kisses over the skin of her neck.  _Stop this!  Stop this now, or there will be no stopping…_  "I love you, my heart," he whispered into her silken warmth.

Abruptly, she went stiff, her hands frozen in his hair, and she stopped breathing.  Worried, he sat up and placed his hand on her shoulder, "Nimoë?"

For long moments she lay there unmoving, staring up at him as if seeing him for the first time.  When she began to breathe again, it came out in a strained whisper, "Legolas???!"

"I am here, love.  What is wrong?"

A radiant smile split her face, like sunshine cresting the hills at dawn, and she screamed out his name, "Legolas!!"  With that she launched up from the bed, wrapping her arms about him, holding him so tightly that he thought he would suffocate.  He was aware that huge gasping sobs were sweeping over her, and he clung to her, trying to soothe her.

"Nimoë, I am here!  I am here!  Everything is alright!"  He did not understand her sudden hysterical tears, and he was frightened.

She pulled back and he saw that, although she was crying as hard as if she had lost a loved one, her face was suffused with light.  "Everything is more than alright."  She took his dear face between her hands and gazed up at him in awe.  "_I remember!_"

With soft fingers she traced the curve of his cheek, the strong line of his jaw, and the full swell of his lips.  "You waited for me…  All these years, you waited!"  Then she cocked her head to the side.  "You have grown!"

Legolas felt a delighted laugh burble up from inside him.  _She was back!_  "No, Nimoë, I have not grown.  You are a few inches shorter this time around.  I blame myself for that.  If I had done a better job of protecting the Colony, you would not have suffered malnutrition."

"Hush, love.  I blame you for nothing.  Morgoth is the one to blame.  Morgoth, the Lord of Sauron."  Her eyes opened wider then, looking back into the new memories that were suddenly a part of her.  "I remember everything.  You were right.  Men were once my allies and my friends."

Her face grew steely, and she said, "It pains me to see such a noble race brought to such depths.  If my song will save them and us from destruction, I will risk anything.  I will go to the very chasm of the Void, and I will brave the Balrog.  Anything, as long as you are with me."

The transformation in her was startling.  From a frightened girl, just barely into maturity, to a woman, strong in her convictions, unafraid in the face of danger.  His Nimoë, and yet subtly changed.  The hardships of her new life could not help but leave their mark upon her, but he would do all that he could to keep them from her mind.

"If you are amenable to this, we will leave in two sunrises.  Caldarion will travel with us, as a guide, and we will bring two others with us.  Any more and we risk being too visible."  He paused, staring raptly down into her eyes.  "By the Valar, I love you!"

"I love you, too, Legolas.  Forever."

Then there was no need for words.  They fell into each other's arms, lying back in the soft warmth of his bed.  With soft kisses they soothed each other, reassuring themselves that they were real.  In the wee hours of the morning they finally rested, entwined together.  Their eyes they left open, for even in sleep they could not bear to lose sight of their beloved.


	17. Of Dwarves and Hobbits

An insistent banging finally roused Legolas from his exhausted slumber.  He quickly rolled out of the bed and pulled on his hose and tunic.  Passing through the entryway he opened his door.  Two Elves of the guard stood there, with anxious expressions on their faces.

Biting back the urge to chastise them for interrupting his first night in the arms of his love in centuries, he nodded in greeting.  "What is it?"

The taller Elf was named Telarion.  He was Caldarion's younger brother, not quite as striking a figure, but of a stout heart.  He said, "We have taken two prisoners, Legolas.  I think you might want to meet them."

Legolas' eyebrows raised.  "Prisoners?  What manner of prisoners?"

Telarion refused to answer, simply repeating, "I think you should meet them yourself."

Frustrated, Legolas nodded.  "Give me a minute."

He turned and closed the door, not caring that the action was abrupt and somewhat rude.  He entered his sleeping room and smiled down at the vision in his bed.  Nimoë was splayed across the bed, her hair and the bedsheets wrapped about her slender body.  Remembering the wonders that the previous night had held, Legolas smiled.  It had been worth the wait.

Gently he reached down and stroked her hair back from her brow.  "Nimoë, sweet, wake up."

Her grey eyes fluttered open and she saw him.  A knowing smile spread across her pink lips and she pulled him down for a kiss.  "What is it?  Why are you already dressed?"

"It seems that two prisoners have been taken.  I am summoned to meet with them."

A small pout crossed Nimoë's face, but she quickly schooled her expression back to peaceful resignation.  "I will miss you."

He smiled.  "I know.  That is why I woke you.  I did not want you to wake and find me gone.  Not after last night.  Will you be alright?"

"Of course.  Go on."

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.  "I will return as quickly as I can."

Nimoë was already rising, keeping the bedsheet wrapped about herself, suddenly shy in his presence.  "I will be at the Healing House.  I have to check on Caldarion."

"I will find you there."  Then he turned and left.

Telarion and the other Elf, a youth named Eredir, led Legolas briskly towards the outskirts of Núrnelven.  There was an old ruin there which had not yet been converted into a dwelling or other building, and was being used for grain storage.  Telarion explained, "It was the only place we could think to bring them until such time as you had a chance to meet with them."

 Legolas could not conceive of what might be waiting for him.  If any Men or creatures of the Shadow had approached Núrnelven, surely they would have been killed rather than captured.  It made no sense.

As they neared the ruin, he began to hear a gruff voice raised in anger, "This is our welcome?  After all the miles we have traveled?  Where is the purported courtesy of the Elves, I ask you?!"

The timbre of the voice was familiar and Legolas hastened his stride.  Pushing wide the rickety door, he entered the burned out room.  What he saw there momentarily struck him dumb.

A Dwarf!  And unless his eyes deceived him, a Hobbit was sitting at his ease on a bale of oats.  The Dwarf was standing with his chest jutted out, trying to talk his way past the guards who had been left behind to guard him.  He was the very image of Gimli in his prime, and his bushy beard nearly grazed the tips of the arrows that were held drawn towards him.

With an abrupt motion of his hand, Legolas ordered, "Drop your weapons.  These are friends."

The Dwarf turned to pierce him with his steely gaze.  "Friends you say?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I expected better treatment from the Elves.  My noble ancestor Gimli, son of Gloin, spoke highly of you.  I begin to wonder if he was in his right mind."

Legolas' eyes brightened.  "You are a descendant of Gimli?  He was indeed a noble Dwarf.  I am honored to say that I was his friend.  I am Legolas."  So saying, he extended his hand in greeting.

"My name is Gilmin.  I have heard your name spoken.  It has been said that you were a great Elf Lord.  They also said that you sailed for Valinor with my grandfather's grandfather.  How can you be here now?"

Smiling at the Dwarf's innate suspicious nature, Legolas replied, "After Gimli passed into the next life, I returned to this place, for my task was not yet complete.  I am honored to meet you, Gilmin."  He gestured to the Hobbit, who had not moved nor spoken since Legolas entered the silo.  "And who is this that travels with you?"

"Ask me about myself, Elf," said the Hobbit.  "I have my own voice, and I know how to use it."  His curling black hair framed a face that was unusually stern for a Hobbit, his blue eyes cold.  He rose from the bale and stepped forward, his hand resting on his hip in such a way that Legolas suspected he had a weapon concealed there, even though both prisoners had been stripped of their visible weaponry.

"My name is Raven Brandybuck.  Do you intend to keep us prisoner here?"

Legolas indicated that both men should exit the building.  "You are under my protection.  Will you not tell me what brings you to this place?  This is far from the beaten path."

They stepped into the full sun of morning and blinked to adjust their eyes.  Gilmin brought a heavy hand up to shade his face.  He spoke simply, "Men have been pressing us hard.  Raven led what was left of the Shire Hobbits to our mountain, where we made them welcome, although Hobbits do not thrive in the deep places.  We have been safe there, but the attacks of Men grow more bold.  It is as if some dread force pushes them ever forward, eager in their desire to eradicate us all.  Rumor reached us in our hideaway that the Elves had been forced to flee Ithilien into the Black Lands of Mordor.

"After the last attack it was decided that we should seek you out, determine whether you survived, and ask you to aid us in our fight for life, if we found you at all.  When Raven first spotted an Elf, last eve, we were overjoyed.  Then, these zealous soldiers leapt upon us, unsuspecting, and we were brought here forcefully, bound with ropes.  We, who have come to ask for your aid!"

Legolas bowed his head.  "I am sorry for your treatment.  You must understand that we also have suffered much.  After our homes were destroyed, we fled, and have lost many of our number here in this dead place.  Our sentries are ever alert, and any being that is not an Elf is regarded with suspicion.  Most of us here are young, and have no real history with your races.  Those who shared the time of the Rings with you have sailed across the Sundering Sea.  Only myself and a few others truly remember the last alliance with Dwarves and Hobbits."  He raised his shoulders, unable to better explain.  "Please forgive us."

Raven looked up at him from under elegant black brows.  "That depends.  Will you aid us?"

"Follow me," Legolas beckoned.  "Let us procure food and drink, and we will talk in good company of news that may either lighten your hearts or give you greater grief."

Turning on his heel, he led the Dwarf and the Hobbit to the dining hall, Telarion and Eredir following in their wake, bemused and somewhat chagrined looks upon their young faces.

After retrieving food and drink from the dining hall, Legolas led his guests to a sunny spot by the shores of the Sea of Núrnen.  For many minutes they ate in silence, for the two travelers had not had much in the way of supplies left, and their bellies cried out to be filled.  Gilmin looked about at the habitation of Núrnelven.  "You have done much here.  Only ten years, and already you have made this place your own."

"It will never truly be home," Legolas replied, "But we have made it the best that we could, given our meager resources."

"Could use some good stonework."

Legolas grinned ruefully.  Some things never changed.

Raven dropped his hand, which had been about to stuff a roll into his mouth, and glared at the Elf and the Dwarf.  "Must we discuss architecture?  There are things of greater import afoot.  You said that you had news, Legolas.  I would like to hear it."

Almost, Legolas could hear the rumblings of Treebeard in his ear, _hasty, hasty_.  This Raven was very young, and it seemed that he took the burden of leadership very seriously.  Biting back the urge to chastise the young Hobbit for his rudeness, Legolas nodded.  "I will tell you my tale.  It unfolded not many days past…"

So he related the tale of Caldarion, and the fleeting hope which had been revealed to him.  Gilmin listened intently, nodding his head in understanding, but Raven interrupted him on several occasions, demanding more detailed explanations.

At the end of the tale, the young Hobbit leapt to his feet.  "You mean to tell me that the fate of us all rests in a woman?  A woman who hardly knows how to use this power?  Why did we bother to come here, Gilmin?  This is no plan.  This is suicide and folly!"

The sturdy Dwarf placed his hand placatingly on the arm of the irate Hobbit.  "Peace, Raven.  Have you a better idea?  I can see the wisdom of this course.  If we can seal Morgoth away from Middle Earth for all time, then we will be securing the future, not only for ourselves, but for our children and our children's children.  Did we not come here to seek counsel and aid?  It seems that counsel we have."  He stood then and bowed towards Legolas.  "My ancestor held you in great esteem, and I will trust in him.  I offer you my services in this quest.  If by my life or my death I can aid the woman Nimoë in completing her task, I will do it.  This need is greater than any one of us."

"Thank you, Gilmin," Legolas replied simply.  He turned his eyes to gaze upon the young Hobbit who stood, dark and sullen, returning his stare without flinching.

For a moment, the Elf Prince thought that Raven would turn on his heels and leave but, finally, the dark-haired Hobbit nodded curtly.  "I have come this far.  No one will call Raven Brandybuck a coward.  I will see this quest through to its end.  There should be at least one person with a skeptical mind among you, to see that you don't all get yourselves killed.  I am with you."

Legolas smiled broadly.  "I am glad to have the two of you here.  I feel as if I am coming full circle.  Come with me, and I will introduce you to Nimoë."


	18. Meetings

Author's Note:  This, I must admit, is a somewhat slow chapter.  It is necessary, however, so please bear with me.  Don't worry, action will be coming soon.  Thanks for all of your wonderful reviews!  They make me very happy :-D

Nimoë dressed herself quickly in her clothes from the previous night, for that was all she had in Legolas' home.  _Their home_, she corrected herself.  By Elven custom, they were now husband and wife.  The consummation of love was not a thing undertaken lightly, for it meant a commitment for a lifetime.  An eternal lifetime.  Again she smiled.  _Two lifetimes, in some cases_.

Once she was clothed, she walked swiftly towards the Healing House.  The sun shone bright in the early morning, and she refused to think on the dangerous quest she must undertake so soon.  Instead, she breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of the air rising off of the vast inland sea.  It was cool and moist, wrapped with hints of salt.  Núrnelven took all of its drinking water from the clear river that rolled rapidly by on its way to the sea.

Nimoë heard a familiar sound and looked up.  High in the eddying updrafts, a hawk circled.  It had been a long time since one had been seen, for birds did not often chose to fly over the tainted land of Mordor.  A broad grin split her face.  It seemed that nature itself wished her happiness in her new life.

Turning her attention from the golden hawk, Nimoë crossed the last few feet to the Healing House.  As she was about to enter, the shutters of the window next to the door were flung open.

Tinunél looked out from the inside and smiled at her foster daughter, beckoning her inside.  "Nimoë!  Come in.  Where did you stay last night?  It is as well that you left, for Caldarion was quite agitated.  He sleeps now, so you need have no fear for him."

 Nimoë went inside and hugged her mother.  "Mother.  I have so much to tell you."

Tinunél looked down at her with an arched eyebrow, as if perhaps she suspected some of what she would be told.  With a firm grip, she led Nimoë to the back corner that was cordoned off by a thick blue drapery, to serve as a dwelling for the two Elves.  Once behind the thick curtain, she motioned Nimoë to the chest of drawers.  "Find some clean clothes.  You will feel better when you are wearing something fresh."

Nimoë moved instinctively to obey her mother.  _So very different from Glorfiane… my first mother_.  With her new memories of her previous life had come memory of her first family, and the woman who had first brought her into the world.  She had been very flighty, for an Elf, so full of her love for the trees that she often forgot about such mundane things as eating and sleeping.  On more than one occasion, Nimoë had gone hungry, but she did not grudge those times.  Glorfiane had loved her in the best way she knew how.  By sending her to Galadriel as soon as her talent had become obvious.  _What had become of her?_  She would have to ask Legolas next time she saw him.

Answering Tinunél's statement that she would feel better, Nimoë laughed.  "You might think I need cheering, but you are sorely mistaken."  Pulling a simple pale yellow gown, the color of ripe wheat, over her head, she shook her hair to swirl it around her shoulders, then began to pull the thick strands into a tight braid.  As soon as that was done, she took Tinunél by the hands and settled her onto her bed.

Standing in front of her beloved foster mother, holding her hands tightly captive, Nimoë dropped down onto her heels, wanting to be more of a height with her.  "Mother mine, I love you.  I know I have not said that often enough, but I want you to know it now.  For the time has come for me to leave your home."  A smile like sparkling dew crossed her face.  "I have joined with Prince Legolas."

Tinunél moved to respond, but Nimoë hushed her.  "There is more, Mother mine.  I know not how to tell you this, so I suppose it is best to say it simply.  I am not only your foster daughter, born of Mendiel of Mirkwood.  I have been born before.  My parents were Naldor and Glorfiane, also of Mirkwood.  I was apprenticed to Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, where I learned to master many aspects of the Elfsong."

Unable to stop the words, once they were begun, Nimoë plowed onwards, over her foster mother's attempts to speak.  "I traveled with the Fellowship of the Ring at the end of the third age.  There I knew the Prince.  I loved him, and he loved me.  With my new memory, and this knowledge and understanding, we felt no impediment stood to our union.  Sadly, we were denied our love in my last life.  I was slain."  She shuddered at the memory of the poison coursing through her body, and the agony of knowing that she must leave her love.

Tinunél placed her fingers over her dear foster daughter's lips to silence the flow of words.  "Nimoë!  I know these things.  I have known since the day you summoned the Eagle.  I have been waiting for the time that you would remember.  That you would join with Legolas.  It has been inevitable from the moment he found you lost in our woods."  She took Nimoë's face in her hands and pulled her forward to kiss her softly on the lips.  "I am so very happy for you.  I know what love is, and I know the joy that it brings."

A shadow flashed across her open face.  "Nimoë, will you be going to Orodruin?"

The young Elf nodded and rose, turning away, suddenly serious.  "I must.  The fate of the Elves, and the other children of Ilúvatar, rests with me."  She sighed.  "I would not have chosen this.  I have no wish for adventure, for responsibility of such a grave nature.  Yet it seems I have no choice."

She turned back again and regarded Tinunél's stricken face.  Wanting to ease her fear, Nimoë smiled.  "Be heartened!  I have remembered my training just in time.  At least now when I come to the Chasm of the Void, I will have an idea of what I must do.  My chance of success has multiplied tenfold."

"Ten times nothing is still nothing."

Nimoë grimaced.  "Do not say such things.  Legolas will travel to that fell place with me.  I trust him with my life.  He will keep me alive long enough.  He must."

Regarding the stoic determination in the young Elf's face, Tinunél subsided.  Really, along with the others, she had no choice.  She must surrender her daughter to her fate.

Legolas sent Telarion off to bring Nimoë to the north watchtower.  He wished for privacy for the meeting of his beloved and their new allies.  It was not common knowledge among the Elves that she carried all of their hopes on her slim shoulders, and he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible.

With thoughtful gaze, he regarded his companions.  Gilmin reminded him so much of Gimli that it hurt, an actual physical pain of remembrance in his gut.  His appearance, his voice, even his mannerisms were a mirror image of his ancestor.  In a way, that gave Legolas new hope.  Gimli had been a valiant companion in danger.  Hopefully Gilmin would prove to be just as invaluable an ally.

Raven, on the other hand, perplexed him.  In his memory, Hobbits were cheerful, jolly folk, or, at worst, not aloof and acerbic.  The young Hobbit leader held himself straight, but with an air of _stay back_ written in his stance.  Legolas felt no doubt that Raven was quite skilled with his short sword, which had been returned to him, but was that enough?  Could he be relied on?  The Elf was wary for, in such an undertaking, there could be no hesitation in trust.  He resolved to speak to Gilmin alone as soon as could be managed, to learn more of the remote, brusque Hobbit.

Almost before he was ready, they reached the watchtower.  Legolas dismissed the young Elf who had been stationed there, and she left, her jaw gaping in wonder at the Dwarf and Hobbit.

Once the adolescent Elf was out of sight, Legolas led the other two after him up into the watchtower.  From the height, all three looked out towards the rumbling mass of Orodruin.  Gilmin stroked his beard with his fingers, pondering the dangers of their journey.  "A Balrog dwells there, you say?"

Legolas nodded, the memory of his last encounter with a Balrog, deep in the Mines of Moria, not far enough away for his comfort, although it had happened centuries past.  "I do not like the idea of encountering such a creature, so I hope that we will be able to escape detection.  Caldarion will aid us in that."

"There is a woman coming," spoke Raven, who had turned to look back towards the settlement.

Legolas looked down and his heart turned over in his chest at the sight of Nimoë approaching, her long braid swaying with the rhythm of her strides, and her dress appearing to be part of the light of the sun.  "Nimoë!" he hailed, "Come up.  I have guests for you to meet."

She nodded her understanding and hastened her stride.  Before a minute had passed, she reached the crest of the stairs.  Her jaw dropped open and she gasped in wonder, "Gimli?!"

The Dwarf swept her a low bow.  "Nay, Lady, although I am honored that you would mistake me for my ancestor.  My name is Gilmin."

Sensing the ceremonial feeling of the meeting, Nimoë dropped him a curtsey.  "My name Nimoë.  I am honored to know you."

Her attention then fell to the ebony haired Hobbit.  "And you, master Hobbit.  How may I call you?"

Rather than answer her question, Raven turned to look up at Legolas incredulously.  "This frail thing is the bearer of our hopes?  She looks like a breeze would blow her over!  How can she expect to endure the rigors of the journey, let alone have hope of completing the task?  This is a foul joke…"

The Hobbit's words were suddenly silenced, as he found his neck perilously close to the point of the Elf Prince's sword.  There was cold ice in the clear blue eyes as he glared down along the blade.  "I caution you, Raven, never again speak disparagingly of this woman.  She is stronger in body and spirit than most men I have known, braver than you, who would issue your venom on a woman, and fierce in her loyalty.  More than that, she is my wife.  If you wish to live, you _will_ show her respect."


	19. The Test

Nimoë watched in horror as Raven moved, faster than light, it seemed.  With a quick twist he had pulled himself away from the dangerous point at his neck, and his own sword was unsheathed, pushed hard against Legolas' stomach.

_How did he do that?  There is no better fighter than Legolas!_  There was no time to ponder.  Legolas had raised his sword again, and the looked ready to slash the Hobbit's head from his shoulders.  Raw anger read clearly on both faces, the fair and the dark, and Nimoë leapt forward, pushing aside the blades of the swords.  "Peace!  Shed no blood over me!  I am not worth the effort."

She turned to face the Hobbit, who she had heard Legolas call Raven, in an attempt to reason with him.  "I understand your concerns, Raven,"  she said.  With a small shrug, she admitted, "In fact, I share many of them."

Raven backed up a pace and stared up at her, his dark eyes boring through her in a most uncomfortable fashion.  She could feel Legolas' gaze upon her, but she ignored him for the time being.  Holding herself as straight as she could, determined to show no fear, she continued.  "I myself have wondered if I have the strength to do what is necessary, and I have a proposal.  Before setting out on this quest, I wish to undergo a test."

The Hobbit narrowed his eyes marginally, and nodded.  "That is reasonable.  I will not venture forth with one untested.  It is folly to do such a thing."

Nimoë felt Legolas' hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him.  His eyes registered worry, as he asked, "What do you mean, Nimoë?  What kind of a test?  You have already proven to me your skill with the bow, and your competence with a short sword.  You need not prove yourself further."

"Nay, Legolas," she agreed.  "Not with weapons.  I can hardly claim to be a master of either, but I can hold my own.  I am speaking of the Elfsong.  My memories are only just surfacing, and I want to be sure that I can master the powers I will need.  I was not taught any skill of this nature."

Raven sheathed his sword.  "That I encourage strongly.  What sort of a test do you propose?"

Nimoë looked about at the landscape, searching for something that might require near to the amount of strength needed to seal the Chasm.  At last her eyes fell on the eastern slopes of the Mountains of Shadow.  With her finger she pointed, "Do you see the place where the stone has given way?  Where an avalanche ripped down most of the wall?"

Legolas nodded, but the other two stared at her incredulously.  Gilmin laughed into his beard.  "I have heard of the unnaturally strong senses of the Elves, but I had thought them exaggerated.  I see I was mistaken.  There is no way I could hope to see details at such a distance.  I see only a dark blur, which I know to be mountains simply by my knowledge of geography."

Nimoë nodded her decision.  "I will repair the damage.  I will send the stones back to where they came from."

"Indeed a great feat, if it can be managed, Lady," said Raven.  "But I will not trust your word.  We must journey nearer, to where the rest of us can see what takes place.  If you can return the cliff wall to the way it was before the avalanche, I will trust in your powers.  If you cannot, I will not travel with you.  A different attack must be planned."  His voice clearly carried the weight of his disbelief, and he was surely ready to be disappointed.

Legolas stared at his wife, her shoulders tense with worry and determination.  "Do you believe you can do it?" he whispered.

"I must believe it, or we are all doomed."

Several hours passed, and the two Elves, along with Gilmin and Raven, stood on a low rise, looking out over the ruined wreckage of the cliff wall.  The journey had been long, but they moved with speed, knowing time was of the essence.  They had chosen not to proceed far enough to be in danger, should anything go wrong, but the Dwarf and the Hobbit could clearly see all that would transpire from their nearby perch.

Along the way, Legolas had explained to Nimoë that the two newcomers would join them on the quest, over Raven's mutterings of  "We'll see."  Gilmin seemed to ignore the young Hobbit's rudeness and brusque nature.  It was as if he expected nothing different.

Legolas pondered once again on the quirk of fate that brought the two to Núrnelven, just as they were about to set out on their quest.  It smacked of intervention, and he forced himself not to hope that perhaps the Valar knew what was happening, and they wished it to come out right.  If that was the case, surely they would simply deal with Morgoth within the void, leaving the rest of creation out of the battle.

He looked over to Nimoë and saw that she had closed her eyes.  Her eyelids twitched with concentration, and her body was rigidly still.  Almost without warning, she began to sing.  This was no gentle song, like the healing touch had been, nor was it pleading, as it had been when she had summoned the Eagle.  This was something entirely different.

At the resonant power and rock-hard command in her voice, he almost found himself pulled towards the cliff wall, drawn by forces so intense that they were almost undeniable.  With quick eyes he saw that Gilmin and Raven were similarly effected, and he put his hands out, gripping the two by the shoulders, exerting all his strength to combat the power of Nimoë's song.

Before them, the pile of rubble at the base of the cliff began to shift, a terrible grinding, screeching sound punctuating the pops and bangs of boulders unseating themselves from comfortable resting places, inexorably drawn back up the towering cliff, defying the very force of gravity.  Heavy clouds of dust soon blocked their view of the base of the wall, but the sight of boulders the size of houses flying upwards was enough to awe any skeptic.

Legolas clung to the Dwarf and the Hobbit, concentrating on resisting the draw of the song, which pulled at them like a maelstrom.  Gilmin trembled, but Raven remained motionless, holding his fear, if he felt any, completely hidden.

After many minutes, the entire rubble field had resettled itself on the cliff wall, knit with new bonds, stronger than those of nature.  As soon as the dust began to settle, Nimoë ceased her song and crumpled to the earth, unconscious.

A familiar voice broke into the haze of exhaustion that clouded Nimoë's mind.  Forcing herself to open her eyes, she saw the deeply concerned blue gaze of Legolas.  _My husband!_  Unable to move her limbs, she whispered, "Did I succeed?"

Hearing her voice seemed to give him relief, and some of the worry fled from his face.  "You did.  You have moved the very rocks of Middle-Earth.  Never did I think to see such power."  His voice held a breathless awe, but it quickly changed to concerned attention.  "Can you move?"

Nimoë closed her eyes, concentrating on her spent body.  With a great effort, she managed to wiggle her fingers.  "Nay," she sighed.  "The power was too great.  I fear I shall not have the strength for some time."

The grizzled face of Gilmin loomed into her vision, and he bowed to her deeply.  "Lady, there is no time to waste.  We must return to your settlement and make ready to leave on the morrow.  Will you deign to let us carry you?"

"You will exhaust yourselves…"

Legolas stood up briskly.  "Nonsense.  I have carried you before, and you were taller then.  You are not a burden, nor will you ever be.  If it will make you feel better, I will put you down as soon as you feel ready to walk on your own.  But Gilmin is right.  We have no time to spare."

Reluctantly, Nimoë nodded her acquiescence.  Then she remembered the other member of their party.  "Raven?"

The Hobbit's voice responded from her left.  "Yes, Lady?"

"Do you believe in me now?"

There was a pause before a response.  "I believe that you have a power like none I have ever imagined.  I will swear to keep you alive until you can use it to save our world."

With a contented nod, Nimoë breathed, "Good."  Then she promptly fainted.


	20. Raven

It took Nimoë two hours to recover enough from her tremendous use of power to be able to walk on her own.  Legolas carried her for the first while, but even he could not keep up such an activity forever for, contrary to myth, even an Elf maiden does weigh something more than a feather.  Gilmin took his turn, for Dwarves are sturdy, and by the time his arms began to fail him, Nimoë insisted she could travel well enough on her own.

Walk she did, although she was forced to lean heavily on her husband.  As time passed, however, she grew stronger until, by the time they were nearing Núrnelven, she was able to hold herself straight.

Inside the city, Legolas led them directly to his home, where he motioned Nimoë inside.  "Go.  Rest.  Tomorrow will bring the start of our long, hard journey.  I will return once I have seen our guests settled."

She did not protest for, although she forced herself to stand tall, her limbs were trembling with the effort, and the soft bed was calling out to her with its seductive tones.  She reached out to stroke Legolas' cheek, and smiled up at him.  "Do not stay up all night planning and plotting, my heart.  You will need your rest as well as I."  Then she entered the low dwelling.

"Come," the Elf Prince beckoned to his guests.  "I have had cots brought to the silo where you were first held.  I am sorry I cannot offer better accommodations, but," with a shrug of self-deprecation he gestured around them, "We did not plan for visitors when we built our city."

Gilmin replied, "A bed is all I need. I care not if I am surrounded by grain."

Raven only nodded his assent, for he was deep in thought, as he had been for the entire trip back to Núrnelven.

Two hours later, when the waxing moon had risen into the dark night, Legolas crept on stealthy feet towards the grain silo.  He had made up his mind to seek out Gilmin.  Something about Raven still concerned him, and he found he dearly wanted the Dwarf's insight into his traveling companion.

On silent feet he approached a low window and peered within.  Luck!  Raven was sleeping against the far wall, his back facing the interior of the room, while Gilmin rested near to the door.

Pulling away from the window, Legolas pulled out a small vial of oil he had brought with him.  Quietly he rubbed liquid drops along the wooden hinges of the door, hoping to minimize any noise it might make on opening.  Satisfied, he re-sealed the vial and wiped his hands down his dark tunic to clean them.  With bated breath, he pulled open the door.

Heavy snores greeted his ears from his left, and he smiled.  It appeared impossible for a Dwarf to sleep without sounding like a grating saw.  On silent feet he moved to Gilmin's side and laid his hand over the Dwarf's mouth.

The stone dark eyes flashed open and regarded him and, to his surprise, the Dwarf only nodded in greeting.  Legolas removed his hand and Gilmin dropped his feet silently to the floor, leading the way out the still open door.

Once on the outside, the Dwarf and Elf moved a good distance away from the silo, before Gilmin spoke.  "I have been expecting you, Legolas.  You want to hear about Raven."

Legolas could but nod, surprised at the Dwarf's insight.  "Aye.  I am uncomfortable around him, and I do not like the feeling."

They reached the base of a stunted apple tree and Gilmin indicated that Legolas should sit.  He did so, leaning his tall frame up against the sturdy trunk of the tree.

Gilmin remained standing, looking out into the distance behind Legolas.  "I have known Raven for many years.  When he arrived at our gates, seeking refuge for his band of Hobbits, he was barely into his majority.  Yet, even then, he was a master of weaponry.  Never have I seen a better fighter.  It is solely due to his prowess that the Hobbits survived long enough to reach our mountain.

"When they came, he was a bit merrier than you see him now, but not much.  His people had suffered terribly at the hands of Men.  There are only fifty Hobbits now left in Middle Earth."

Gilmin paused, letting that reality sink in.  Then he again took up his tale.  "Those little people were forced to hide in the bowels of the earth with us.  We, of course, see this as no hardship but, although Hobbits dwell in holes, that was no preparation for the life they would be forced to live.

"Within our mountain, away from sunlight and birdsong, they quickly grew morose.  No longer did music pour forth from their lips, and smiles are rarely seen.  I feared for a while that they would die, unable to sustain their will to live, but Hobbits are made of strong stuff.  While they are now sullen, unhappy people, they continue to persevere, awaiting that day when they will again return to the sunlight."

Legolas asked, "What about Raven, then?  He has been out of the mountain for many weeks now.  Why has the fresh air and bright light of day not eased his heart?"

Gilmin shook his head, looking somewhat lost.  "I cannot explain it.  I had expected him to recover quickly, but it has been much the opposite.  Now he is not only sullen, he is also suspicious and edgy.  Always his hands are clenching his weapons..."  His eyes caught Legolas' and would not release them.  "I count him my friend, Legolas.  I count him my friend, and it pains me to see him so.  It is as if he fights a battle within himself.  A battle of such a nature that I do not understand."

Shaking himself to dispel the gloomy mood that had settled over him, Gilmin continued, "Know this.  There is no better fighter than Raven.  He has sworn to see this quest fulfilled, and I believe in him.  I will not let him go astray.  Please, Legolas.  Trust me and trust him.  We will not fail you."

Legolas nodded and rose.  "You have answered many questions, Gilmin, but raised still more.  I will trust your judgment, but I will remain vigilant.  If he ever acts contrary to our goal, I will take measures against him."

"That is your right and your responsibility.  I do not begrudge it."

"So be it."  Legolas extended his hand and Gilmin caught it up in a firm grip, sealing their pledge.  "I am sorry for interrupting your sleep, but I could not venture forth with doubt still clouding me."

"It is nothing," said the Dwarf, turning back the way he had come from.  "I will see you in the morning.  Go and see to your wife."

Legolas smiled at the Dwarf's departing back.  It was so much like having Gimli back that he could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that Gilmin was, most assuredly, a different person.

Purposefully, then, the Elf turned and moved back towards the center of the city, to his wife, to his last night of peace before once again departing on a quest to save the world.

Author's Note:  Well, that explains a bit about Raven… are we feeling a little bit better yet?  Next chapter will likely be the departure, unless Caldarion yells at me to give him more attention first.

If any of you are interested, I have put up a picture of my baby boy on my author profile page… He is the light of my life, and he gets so ticked with me when I type.  It has gotten to the point that if I put my hand on my mouse or my keyboard he grabs it and yells "NO!" at me.  I am having to only write when he is asleep, so it's sort of his fault that I am not going quite as fast as I would otherwise… But I love him to pieces, and he really does deserve my full attention (Bad Mommy!  Bad Mommy!)

I am also having to try to keep up with my originals, and I am not doing a great job, although some are coming along…

Sorry, long note.  Just wanted to explain my slowness.  Have a nice day!


	21. Departure

It was difficult to tell exactly when the sun rose the next morning, for the sky was shrouded with heavy clouds which had settled during the night.  In the distance, heavy rain could be seen pelting the parched earth of the plains of Gorgoroth.  Nimoë shuddered and pulled her heavy cloak firmly about her shoulders.

She stood just outside the Healing House, along with Gilmin and Raven, both silent and thoughtful.  Legolas had gone inside to retrieve Caldarion.  It ate on Nimoë's mind that she had hardly visited with her friend in all the days since he had returned to Núrnelven but, truth be told, she found that she was more than a little bit afraid of him. His erratic actions in her presence had disturbed her greatly and she prayed fervently that whatever it was about her that was setting him off had lessened.

After many long, cold minutes, the door opened, and Tinunél stepped out, holding the door wide for the two men.  Caldarion exited before Legolas.  His bearing was bent, but he held himself firm.  A bow was strapped over his back, and a sword hung from his waist.  The burn which marred his face had begun to heal, but the scabs were still prevalent, and it would be some time before it completely recovered, into what would surely be a permanent scar.

Timidly, Nimoë glanced up and caught his eye.  To her great relief, he did nothing out of the ordinary.  He only inclined his head slightly to acknowledge her presence, then waited for Legolas to introduce him to the Dwarf and the Hobbit.

As Nimoë watched the introductions begin, she felt a soft hand on her arm.  Turning, she regarded her foster mother, looking down at her with tear-filled eyes.  "Mother," she said, trying to sound reassuring, "I will miss you terribly.  Keep the city safe, for when we return, we will have ushered in a new age for the Elves."

Touched by her daughter's show of bravado, Tinunél reached out and pulled her close in a fierce embrace.  "You can still chose not to go, child."

"No.  I cannot.  Do not ask it of me."

Tinunél nodded, with her head buried in Nimoë's shoulder.  "As you wish.  Take care of yourself.  Do not take unnecessary risks."  She pressed something small and hard into Nimoë's palm.  "This is a salve for Caldarion's burns.  Apply it every night, to help with healing and to minimize the scar."

Nimoë pulled open her small pouch and dropped the container in, then was startled when yet another object was placed into her hand.  Backing away, she glanced down, knowing by the feel what it must be, but unwilling to believe it.  "Your blade, mother?"

"Aye.  I will have little need of it here.  It has been passed down through my family as long as memory recalls.  It is forged of mithril, and it will serve you well.  Hide it where you can easily reach it for, as a last resort, you will undoubtedly need it quickly."

Nimoë gazed down at the small weapon, which she had pulled from its worked leather sheath.  It was no more than three inches in length, and deathly thin.  The blade was etched with runes, which were so ancient that their meaning was not immediately clear.  "I am not your blood daughter, Tinunél.  Do you not wish to save it for one of your kin?"

Tinunél pressed a firm kiss on Nimoë's cheek.  "You are all the family that I have left.  I will not dishonor your foster father's memory by taking another husband.  Take the blade and bear it proudly.  My thoughts are with you always."  She gave a most un-Elf-like sniffle, and pushed Nimoë firmly away.  "Now go, before I find that I cannot release you."

Nimoë turned and saw that the other four were watching the farewell, awaiting the time they could take their leave.  "I am ready," she said simply.

Into the dreary dawn they walked, five companions on a quest most dire.  And one small woman watched after them, the only soul to observe their departure.

Legolas was aware of the silent tears running down his beloved's face, and he drew near, offering her his quiet support.  Caldarion walked in the lead, his eyes scanning the route ahead, seeing things that the others could not, for they had no knowledge of them.  Raven guarded the rear, although they felt it unlikely that an attack would come from that direction.

For many hours they walked, until Caldarion began to sway on his feet, his injured body finally rebelling against the hard toil.  They found a solitary tree growing in the middle of the plain, and they sat down around it, pulling out some of the travel bread they had brought with them.

Legolas thought wistfully of lembas.  Oh, he knew how to make it well enough, but they simply did not have all of the ingredients.  So the packs that they carried were heavier than they would have been otherwise.  They were also forced to carry all of their water, for once they left the relative safety of Nurn and entered Gorgoroth, there would be no safe drinking water to be found.

Legolas shrugged out of his heavy pack, wincing at the tight pain of his shoulder muscles.  If he was suffering, how much more so for Nimoë?  If he could have, gladly would he have carried her burden as well but, as it happened, since Caldarion could carry very little, the other four had been forced to share the bulk of his gear between themselves.  There was no way they could carry more.

The Elf Prince glanced over at Caldarion, and found the younger man's gaze rested intently upon Nimoë's back.  A strange expression was written on his face, and Legolas found himself at a loss to explain it.  It was not threatening, although it bordered on it, and it was not lust, although, again, it was similar.  One way or another, it made the Elf Prince decidedly uncomfortable.

To dispel the dark mood that threatened to descend upon him along with the approaching rain, Legolas asked, "Caldarion, how many days would you say we must travel?"

Broken out of his reverie, the dark-haired Elf brought his head up abruptly.  Seeing the eyes of the others upon him, he spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.  "I had traveled two days before I was captured.  I am afraid that the time after that event is blurry in my mind.  Another two, three days?  If we can avoid detection?"

His eyes strayed again to Nimoë, and she shied away unconsciously.  Legolas broke in, "Earlier, you tried to give Nimoë some kind of warning.  What was it that you were worried about?"

A bizarre expression crossed Caldarion's face, almost as if he was listening to someone speaking.  "I do not remember that.  If I did, it must have been a fever induced delirium.  We all know the danger we are going into.  That to Nimoë is no greater than to the rest of us."

Only moderately reassured, Legolas finished his meal in silence.  Once they had all eaten and rested a bit, the four healthy companions pulled on their heavy packs, and all five set out again into the north.

No, Legolas!  Do not listen to me!  It is a trap!  Morgoth is wise and cunning, and he has plans beyond what you know.

_Nimoë, run!  Turn back now before it is too late.  Your gift is your curse, and the doom of us all.  If you should come within his grasp…  Run!_

That night, as they slept, each was set in turn as the watch.  During the darkest hours Caldarion sat, staring out through the drizzle, awaiting something.  A howl arose to the west and he rose to his feet, moving stealthily away from the camp, unaware of a pair of eyes staring after him, unaware of the feet that followed his retreating form.

In a clearing many yards from the sleepers, there stood a tall, midnight black creature, proud on its four paws, its muzzle raised high towards the spot where the moon would be seen, were it not curtained by clouds.  Caldarion approached the beast, slowly, but without visible fear.  When he was only feet away from it, he knelt, bowing his head.

"Great Warg, I bring news for the master.  The girl who travels with us is the One.  She holds the power that is sought by our Lord.  We will continue due north throughout the next day.  Keep the orcs and your brethren from our path.  Our master does not wish our progress to be hindered.  Circle around behind us, but do not let your presence be detected.  I will meet with you again tomorrow night, when we will be within the land of Gorgoroth."

The Warg nodded its dark head slightly, allowing that it understood his words, but not giving him enough acknowledgement to demonstrate respect.  Caldarion backed away from the beast, not turning his back, for he did not trust the creature.

Quick but silent feet returned to the campsite, laying themselves down where they had been earlier.  When Caldarion came once again to his post, a glance told him that everything was as it should be.

He dropped his head down into his hands and allowed soft tears to fall.


	22. Vision

The rain tapered off to a thin mist throughout the next day.  The five companions trudged onward, bows in the hands of the Elves, and Gilmin and Raven with their axe and sword respectively drawn.  They had crossed through the border of Nurn into Gorgoroth, the vast, barren plain of north Mordor.  Away from the relative protection of the occasional copses of trees, and the palatable drinking water of Nurn, their nerves were on edge.

Nimoë in particular appeared to be affected.  Gilmin and Raven had passed through Gorgoroth on their way south to find the Elves, and Legolas had a greater history of danger to draw courage from.  One might have expected Caldarion to show trepidation at re-entering the country where he had been taken captive and treated so brutally, but he moved onward without hesitation, his eyes marking familiar formations, unerringly leading them along the safest paths towards Orodruin.

With her hand clenched tight around her bow, Nimoë walked just behind Legolas.  His very nearness helped to allay some of her worry, but it was not enough to reassure her fully.  It felt as if hundreds of eyes were watching them as they passed, glancing out from behind boulders, staring from under outcrops, and it seemed as though the hairs on the back of her neck would never again lie flat.  Yet every time she brought her gaze to the spot where she felt a malevolent stare, she found nothing.

It was well past noon when Gilmin broke the silence they had been traveling in, saying, "I was at first concerned about bringing you with us, Caldarion, with your injury, but I now see the value you bring.  Knowing the terrain as well as you do has saved us hours, if not days, of scouting, trying to find our way safely."

"Thank you, Dwarf," Caldarion nodded.  "If I am useful in any way, then I am glad.  I know that I slow you down with my infirmity, but I feel stronger by the hour.  It is as if each passing step strengthens me."

Legolas regarded his young protégé with concerned eye.  It was true.  The nearer they drew to the fiery mountain, the straighter Caldarion stood, the longer his strides.  While it was relieving to see him so improved, it seemed very abrupt.  Very convenient.

Behind him, Legolas heard Nimoë groan, and he turned to see her massaging her hands into her neck.  The extra weight of Caldarion's gear was particularly difficult for her to manage, and it distressed the Elf Prince to see his wife suffering so.

"Caldarion," he said, "If you are truly feeling stronger, then perhaps you could carry a greater portion of your gear."

The young Elf swung his gaze over to Nimoë and saw that she was bent far forward, shouldering not only her own equipment, but also his water and his bedroll.  A wave of worry washed over his face, and he moved quickly to her side, where he pulled the heavy pack off of her back.  "I am sorry that you have needed to carry my burden, Nimoë.  I am much recovered, and I would gladly bear this load for a way."

The sudden lifting of the weight made Nimoë feel like she was floating, but she shook her head.  "Nay.  I will carry my own equipment.  If you could fit your water into your small sack, it would help me, however," she admitted.

"Of course, my Princess," he responded, unstrapping the extra water sacks from the pack frame.

She opened her mouth to protest the title, but snapped it shut again at Legolas' curt head shake.  Taking a moment to think, she realized that, technically, she _was _now a princess.

Turning her back on the group, she wandered a few steps away, needing to think.  There had been little chance to speak with Legolas since they had joined together and she felt a bit lost.  She knew that he loved her, but without the chance to speak, to share affection, it was almost as if they had moved back into their previous relationship, one of guardian and ward.  She ached to be again within his embrace, but the exigencies of their travel made such a thing nearly impossible.

Her mind full of these disturbing thoughts, Nimoë was unaware of how far she had strayed.  She stood alone on the top of a low ridge, and she stared north towards the fiercely burning mountain.  A deep shudder ran through her as she began to realize the full implications of their quest.  To enter the very bowels of the fire mountain…

A blur of black caught the corner of her eye, and she snapped her gaze towards it.  A wolf?  She had seen only its retreating hindquarters, but she did not see how she could be mistaken.  What was a wolf doing in such a dead place?

Uncomfortably aware of her solitude, Nimoë turned and walked briskly back to her companions.  Legolas caught the look of taut worry in her face and moved quickly to her side, catching her hand in his.  "What is it, love?"

Her brows furrowed as she replied, "I thought that I saw a wolf just over that rise," indicating the direction from which she had come.  "It was dark as night, and it ran when it saw me."  With fearful eyes she looked up at her husband.  "What could such a creature want in a place like this?"

Legolas looked over her head at Gilmin, who stood behind her, his eyes hard.  "I think that what you saw could not have been a simple wolf, Nimoë.  Wolves could not live in this land.  All I can think is that it must have been a Warg, although I had hoped never to see such creatures again.  I had thought them gone from this world."

"Are you certain that your eyes did not deceive you, Nimoë?" asked Caldarion, who had finished rearranging the contents of the packs.

"I do not think so.  My eyesight is keen and has never told me wrong before."

Raven, who had been standing nearby, but aloof, spoke, "They have been watching us since we entered this land.  Have you not felt their eyes?"

Legolas nodded.  "I have felt eyes, but been unable to find them.  If they are near, they are choosing not to be seen.  Almost as if they are simply keeping themselves abreast of our progress."  His hand gripped more tightly on his bow.  "I do not like it."

Gilmin hefted his axe and harrumphed.  "Well, like it or no, I do not see where we have much choice.  We must keep moving."

Caldarion nodded.  "Yes.  We must."

Nimoë looked around at her companions apprehensively, "But if the Wargs know of our presence, are we not walking into a trap?"

Legolas gave her a reassuring squeeze.  "Most likely.  But a trap is never as effective once its presence is known.   We will double our vigilance."

With that less than encouraging thought in their minds, the company moved onward, weapons drawn.

That night they slept under a broad overhang, the parched rock blocking their view of the stars.  At least it was dry.  There was no wood for a fire, so they huddled close, Nimoë wrapped tight in Legolas' arms.

The warmth of his body seeped into her, giving her much needed comfort and reassurance.  With his strong arms about her, and his firm body supporting her slight weight, Nimoë was almost able to forget the danger which they faced.  None of them had sighted any other creature, although they could all feel the overwhelming sense of presence, of being watched.

Watched!  Nimoë's eyes flew up and she found Caldarion staring intently at her.  His dark eyes were shadowed, and she almost could not see whether he was looking at her or past her into his own thoughts.  But when her eyes caught his, he turned abruptly away and she knew it had been her that was focus of his attention.

A wave of guilt washed over her as she remembered his salve.  Regretfully, she detached herself from Legolas' embrace and delved into her pouch, coming up with the small container.

On soft feet she moved to Caldarion's side, and she saw that he flinched away from her.  _Why?  Why is he afraid of me?_ "Caldarion," she said, "Tinunél gave me a salve for your burn.  May I put it on?"

Not willing to meet her eyes, he nodded, staring down at his muddy boots.

With trembling fingers, Nimoë dipped into the container, coming out with a dollop of cold, whitish cream.  She reached out and touched the stuff to his tender burn.  Without warning, a terrible sensation of vertigo raced through her and she gave a groan, struggling to remain balanced where she sat back on her heels.

In the back of her mind, she heard Legolas' concerned voice saying, "Nimoë?  What is amiss?" but she could not bring herself to respond.  Her hand moved of its own accord, smoothing the salve over the handprint of the Balrog, but her mind was far away, tossing about in a black void, spinning without direction, endlessly, endlessly.  _I am coming to you, Lord.  I am coming._

So much despair, and so much malice, sweeping over her like water through a broken dam.  She was drowning in it, choking on the bile that rose in her throat.  _Help me!  Legolas!_  A vast black hand, shot through with fiery red, tipped with vicious talons, reached out of the darkness, relentlessly moving towards her paralyzed face.  She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came forth, only a raking gasp of fear.

_NO!  I will not serve you!  LEGOLAS!  SAVE ME!!!_

She could feel the heat of the mighty hand coming nearer, so close that sweat beaded on her brow, and her body tensed in preparation for the searing pain that would come, knowing that if the hand reached her, she was lost.

Abruptly, she came back to her senses with a crash, as she hit the ground hard.  Gasping for breath, she lay there, shaking in the dirt.  Then Legolas was there, holding her close, whispering words of comfort as the screams which would not come earlier poured from her body.  He pressed her face against his chest, to muffle the sound.  "Nimoë, I am here.  You are safe.  Nothing can harm you.  You must stop screaming.  Please, Nimoë.  They will find us."

With a superhuman effort, she managed to stifle her screaming, but she clung desperately to Legolas, afraid to lift her eyes and look about her.  Afraid that she was still in that terrible, breath-stealing place.  That the evil presence was still waiting just beyond her eyelids.

Legolas glared over her head at Caldarion, who was cowering against the rock wall, his arms wrapped tight about himself, rocking back and forth mindlessly, as he had been from the moment he had bodily shoved Nimoë away from him, breaking her contact with his face.  "What did you _do_ to her?" he asked accusingly.

"It was not me…  It was not me… It was not me…" Caldarion repeated, like a mantra, in rhythm with his rocking.

To Legolas' great surprise, Raven walked up to the young Elf and slapped him hard across the face.  "Snap out of it!  Your only value to us is your ability as a guide.  If you cannot formulate a straight sentence, how can we trust you?  What did you do to the lady?"

Caldarion raised his hand bemusedly to his crimson cheek.  His rocking ceased, and he stared at them as if seeing them for the first time.  "The Balrog must have come to her.  Perhaps his essence is still within the burn.  I swear that I did not mean to hurt her!"

Legolas nodded, believing the younger Elf.  "Nimoë, can you tell me what you saw?"

Still with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, she whispered, "I have seen the Void.  And I have seen the Enemy."


	23. Arrival

Legolas' arms tightened perceptibly around her.  "Did he see you?  Did he acknowledge you?"  His voice was tingled with worry.  If her presence was known to the enemy, then their danger had increased tenfold.

She nodded, and he could feel the motion against his shoulder.  "He tried to mark me.  The way that Caldarion is marked."

The Elf Prince's eyes flashed to meet Caldarion's.  "It was the Balrog who marked you.  Do you think that Morgoth could have hurt Nimoë in her state of trance?"  His hands traced reassuring circles down his wife's back, reassuring her of his steadfast presence, and the protection he offered.

Caldarion raised his hands in a gesture of ignorance.  "I do not know.  The Balrog touched me physically, but his power is bound to this world.  Morgoth's strength is more all-encompassing.  It is possible that he could work his will through the mind."

Gilmin stood peering out from under the overhang into the darkness of the night.  "I do not like this.  I think that we should move on.  The enemy will expect us to rest, to gather our strength on the way.  It seems our only chance at surprise is to move faster."

Legolas was surprised when Nimoë pulled away from him, gazing distractedly towards the Dwarf.  "You are right," she said.  "We will be exhausted when we reach Orodruin, but if Morgoth and the Balrog have time to set their traps, we will have no chance.  We must press on."

She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to a voice that was inaudible to the others.  Then a small half grin crossed her face.  "My memories come flowing back to me quickly now.  I know a magic that can help us."  She turned her face up towards Legolas.  "You remember our long journey into Rohan, when we sought for Merry and Pippin?  I used the essence of nature to bring strength to our bodies.  I can do that again.  Even here in this barren place, the very dirt has power.  We will not falter."

A relieved smile crossed the Elf Prince's face.  "I remember.  I think that it was then that I began to fall in love with you.  You gave your strength without complaint, although it weakened you…"  His fingers reached out to stroke her cheek, seeing the memory before his eyes.  With a shake he brought himself back to the present.  Helping her to rise, he addressed their companions.  "She can do this.  We may still have a chance, but we must not rest.  Surprise is our most valuable weapon."

Gilmin and Raven quickly donned their packs and, after a moment's hesitation, Caldarion followed suit, although his fingers still strayed to the place where Raven had struck him.  Legolas held up Nimoë's pack so that she could shrug into it, then hefted his own.  "When you are ready, love."

Nimoë closed her eyes, remembering, then began to sing, a low, lilting melody.  Almost immediately the companions began to feel the effect of the song.  Gilmin voiced the thought that ran through most of their minds.  "Let us run."

Caldarion felt a taut smile cross his marred features.  If they did not stop, there would be no way to make his nightly meeting with the leader of the Wargs.  _There was a chance._

All through the long night they ran, passing farther into the depths of Gorgoroth.  An inner sense like iron towards a lodestone drew Caldarion unerringly towards Orodruin, following paths that might have been overlooked by others.  There were deep rents in the earth, yawning wide, in a pattern like a fractured eggshell.  It was into these chasms that he led them.

The climb to the bottom was treacherous.  The steep walls were not solid, and many times, thinking a foothold was solid, one of the companions would fall, their footing suddenly eroded away.  Gilmin suffered the worst, for he was not slight like Raven, nor possessed of the uncanny grace inherent to the Elves, who could even walk on the surface of snow.  In the end, he rolled down the last meters to the bottom, where he lay unmoving.

Legolas called down in a loud whisper, "Gilmin!  Are you injured?"

The gruff voice of the Dwarf reached their ears, frustrated but not strained.  "Confounded wall!  Trying to kill me!  I am well enough, but I think that I shall rest here until you join me."

Many minutes later, the remaining companions reached the bottom.  Gilmin rolled to his feet and, without pausing except to take a drink to refresh themselves, they were off again.

Caldarion led them through the maze of paths which had been ripped into the landscape.  This was the path he had followed when he had returned to Núrnelven and, even if his memory had been lacking, a throbbing awareness of the mountain was within him, and he knew that he could not have gone astray, even if he wanted to.

In the chasms the sensation of being watched dropped dramatically.  The Wargs could not follow them, for the walls were too steep for the fleet-footed beasts.  Caldarion guessed that the creatures did not realize that their presence was already known, for they seemed to be taking pains not to be seen.  Having to stay back from the rim made following the fast-moving company much more difficult.  If they could keep up their pace, there was every chance that they would arrive before full warning was given.

His smile grew more broad.

Nimoë ran near the head of the column, just behind Caldarion.  Her voice remained low, but she sang earnestly as they went.  She could feel the power coursing through her, easing the aches of her body away, but knew that the cost would be steep.  Such an extended use of the power required great effort, although she could not feel it through the spell she was weaving.

As the brighter grayness of morning began to penetrate into the deep places where they traveled, she felt her throat growing hoarse.  She stopped singing long enough to hiss at Legolas, "I cannot keep this up indefinitely.  I must rest my voice.  Do you think that we can run for a while without my aid?"

He nodded.  "We will do what we must.  You must have strength left to use when we reach the mountain.  Do what you think best, love."

So she ran on in silence, looking about at her surroundings in the new brightness.  The walls of the chasms were growing higher as they penetrated the north, and they were tinged with a distinct reddish hue.  It looked almost as if the very earth bled.

For three long hours they ran in complete silence, and by the end Nimoë and Caldarion were staggering.  When she felt that she could not go on, she again began to sing.  Immediately, her faltering steps were strengthened and her breathing eased.

Thus was the pattern established for the next two days.  When, at the end of that time, they had run themselves into an almost hypnotic trance, Caldarion raised his hand, signaling a halt.  In a hushed voice he indicated the sharp bend ahead.  "Around this curve the chasm leads into the base of Orodruin.  I know that we cannot see the mountain, but that is only because of how deep we are beneath the surface of the earth already.  Orodruin is there.  If you listen with your senses of smell and touch, you will know this is true."

He paused, waiting for them to become aware of the significance of the heavy stench of sulfur and the strange vibrations in the ground beneath their feet.  They had been steadily increasing, but now the smell was almost overwhelming.

Seeing the understanding in their faces, he went on.  "There will be a guard, whether or not the alarm has been spread of our approach.  Be ready to attack.  If we are lucky and quick we should be able to neutralize them without raising awareness to our presence.  Then we must rely on stealth, for if we are found, I cannot vouch for what will happen."

Even as he spoke, he was aware of the lies.  Yes, there would be a guard, but their presence would simply be a foil, making them think that their entry was unwelcome.  They would find no other resistance on the way to the chasm.  That was where the trap would be sprung.  Where his friends would perish and he would sign the death warrant of all the children of Ilúvatar, save Men.

If they were very lucky, the Wargs would not have returned to their home yet, and the orcs would be slow to respond.  That would leave only the Balrog and the will of Morgoth himself.

He stifled a morbid chuckle.  _Only!_

He drew his bow.


	24. To the Chasm

Nimoë's fingers grasped her bow, the string drawn taut, and she cast one last fearful but determined look at Legolas.  His face was firm, his jaw tight.  Worry was clear in his sky blue eyes, but when he caught her gaze on him, he managed to give her a reassuring smile.  Taking heart, Nimoë drew a deep breath, steadying her nerves.

Gilmin stood with his legs bent and parted, his axe held gripped in both hands across his chest, and Raven's sword was drawn.  Caldarion and Legolas also had their bows drawn and ready.

Legolas gave a curt nod and all five dashed around the corner.  There were ten Orcs in a line across the gaping hole that the chasm ripped into the fire mountain.  A dim red glowed hotly from the enclosed passageway and it showed the twisted bodies of the enemy in sharp relief.

It was evident that their abrupt appearance was unexpected for three of the Orcs fell, with white fletched arrows in their bodies, before the others even had a chance to reach for their weapons.

Nimoë had never actually fought in a real battle, only in the practice fields.  Her fingers fumbled in her quiver, struggling to pull forth a second arrow.  They felt large and unwieldy, and it took three tries before she successfully managed to draw an arrow out and fit it to the bowstring.

By that time, Legolas and Caldarion had eliminated two more, and Gilmin and Raven had moved forward to intercept the onrushing foes.  For a moment, Nimoë stood dumbfounded.  Yes, Gilmin had said that Raven was an exceptional fighter, but as she watched the Hobbit whirl and thrust with his sword, almost as if it were alive, dancing an intricate pattern of death, she could only marvel.  Never would she have expected such skill from a race that had been so inherently peaceful.

Gilmin dispatched one Orc, while Raven killed one and severely injured two others.  Only two remained standing, having made it past the steel-wielding Dwarf and Hobbit.  Nimoë released her arrow, and was relieved to see it reach its target, while another arrow pieced the creature from a different angle.  The last Orc also fell, with Caldarion's arrow in its skull.

As Raven finished the work of killing the two Orcs he had maimed, Legolas gave Nimoë's hand an encouraging squeeze.  In her first real battle she had not panicked.  Her shots had flown true.  He was relieved that she could now provide some defense for herself.  During the War of the Rings he had been tremendously worried, for she had been unable to wield a weapon.  This was definitely preferable.

The battle had been quick, and there had not been a chance for the Orcs to raise the alarm.  Caldarion beckoned to the others, urging them to follow him into the dusky, dark passageway which had, in other days, been an active lava tube.  Legolas retrieved their arrows before chasing after the others.  There were only so many, and it would be wasteful to leave them behind.

Caldarion ran on fleet feet through the twisting, scarlet tinged darkness.  Now that he was within Orodruin, his body felt whole again.  More than whole.  It was as if an infinite strength pulsed through him, radiating from the scar on his face.

He knew its source and ached to reject the unnatural vigor.  Morgoth was drawing him ever closer to the Chasm, the one place where his vast power could reach into Middle Earth with no impediment.  Caldarion could feel laughter bubbling over in vicious glee within that other presence in his mind.  He tried to shut it away, but he had no control over that power.

At least it did not seem able to read his inner thoughts, only those that reached the surface, like when he had tried to warn Nimoë.  Memory of the wrenching agony that had been wrought on him as punishment for that defiance swept over him, and he felt his body shake at the thought.  If he kept his rebellious thoughts buried deep, he was not tortured.  It was a very small boon.

Caldarion could sense the presence of the Balrog moving down a parallel passage, keeping pace with the company.  Of course the demon would know of their presence.  When it had marked the Elf, a part of its essence had entered his body.  Caldarion knew that the fire demon must feel him as clearly as he could feel the other.

Still, it chose to remain hidden; to allow Nimoë to reach the Chasm, before coming forward to destroy the others.  For Morgoth would not allow any force to keep the maiden and her power from his grasp.

Once Nimoë was within the thrall of the Dark Lord, he would control the Elfsong.  Through her, he would use the magic to open a passage for him to enter the world, and eternal night would consume Middle Earth.  It was for this purpose that the trap had been set.  To lure her to him.  She was the key to his plans for dominion.  And Caldarion was bringing her to her doom.  To the doom of all.

Raven watched Caldarion as he ran, looking for any evidence of treachery.  When he had followed the Elf to his meeting with the Warg, he had thought of revealing the knowledge of his perfidy to the others, but had hesitated.  Although Caldarion's treachery seemed blatantly clear, Raven could not figure how it might manifest itself.

Caldarion continued to lead them to the very place where the girl would forever seal Morgoth into his prison in the Void.  That did not make any sense.  Why would one who wished to deceive them lead them to the very place of vulnerability to his master?

Until he understood the riddle, Raven did not wish to upset the balance.  So he watched, something he was very good at.  If one did not speak, one tended to go unnoticed.  It was a tactical advantage.  And Raven chose never to be without an advantage.  It was one of the reasons he was still alive.

At the first hint of treachery he would strike, but not before.  His hand lay restlessly on his sword hilt.  The deep places filled him with trepidation and he angrily pushed it aside.  Soon enough it would be time for action.  _Wait, Raven.  Wait…_

Nimoë felt a strange compulsion growing in her the farther they delved into the heart of Orodruin.  Heat like nothing she had ever felt radiated from the ground, the walls, the ceilings.  Yet even that discomfort, which sent beads of perspiration rolling down her brow, her back, even her legs, was nothing compared to the siren call that beckoned her forward.  _Come to me, Child of Song.  I have seen your heart.  I speak to your soul.  You will join with me and we will bring forth a new dawn.  Power like none you have ever imagined will be yours.  You will come to me…_

Even though a part of her mind recognized the wrongness of the pervasive call, she could not force her will away from it.  It was as if she were a salmon, driven to its birthplace to spawn; a creature without conscious volition, following a power stronger than gravity.  Stronger than the movements of the earth.  She could not resist the call, although she knew it was evil.  Desperately, she tried to slow her headlong run, but all she succeeded in doing was stumbling to the ground.

A hand on her arm lifted her to a standing position, and she turned her head to look at the one who aided her.  The long blonde hair, pulled back in tight braids behind the ears, and the sky blue eyes seemed somehow familiar to her, and she ached to speak, but instead she turned and ran on.

Caldarion watched when Nimoë fell and saw the glazed blankness in her eyes.  Saw it, and recognized it for what it was.  They were close enough to the Chasm that Morgoth's power was already weaving its insidious tendrils into Nimoë innocent and unsuspecting soul.

_NO!!!_

The cry of his soul almost reached his throat, but it was torn from him before it could be given voice.  Tears fell freely from his eyes as he ran, ahead of the others, so they could not see his torment.

The pull of the Chasm reached a fever pitch and they came abruptly around a blind corner into a vast cavern, ringed with bubbling streams of liquid rock, glowing a fiery orange-red.  Scalding vapors swirled through the vaulted chamber and in the center of the cavern was the Chasm.  It was as long as a felled tree and as wide as two Elves laid head to toe.  The edges were jagged, showing the violent history of its creation, and within its depths was a swirling blackness, darker than the darkest night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caldarion saw Nimoë moving past him, her steps reluctant, clearly showing she was drawn by a power not her own.  Of a sudden, his own suffering meant nothing to him, nothing compared to his love for the maiden best beloved in his heart, and he lunged forward, pinning her to the smoldering ground.

Agony pierced through his body, like every nerve was being held into the deep boiling pits of molten magma, as the will of Morgoth warred to regain control.  Nimoë struggled underneath him, made strong by the call of the Dark Lord.

"Legolas!" Caldarion screamed, ignoring the sensation that he was being ripped into a thousand bloody pieces, "It's a trap!  _Run!_  Take Nimoë and run!!!"


	25. Despair

As they came into the final chamber, where he could feel the very essence of evil pulsing like a poisoned heartbeat around him, Legolas glanced over at Nimoë, looking to see if she was ready to begin closing the Chasm.  Her eyes were glazed over, and her mouth moved, forming words with no sound.  "Nimoë?" he asked, a catch in his throat.

She did not respond, only walked into the excruciating heat of the chamber, her body drawn forward as if of some other volition.  He moved after her, and cringed at the searing pain shooting through his boots.  The ground was so hot that he could hardly stand to place his feet down, but Nimoë moved over it slowly, as if she felt nothing.  Something was not right.  Very, very wrong.

Before he could move to pull her back, however, Caldarion lunged forward, pinning Nimoë to the ground.  Legolas watched in horror as she began to struggle, fighting Caldarion off of her as if he were little more than a child.  Caldarion's scream of, "It's a trap!  _Run!_  Take Nimoë and run!" was hardly necessary.  His beloved wife was strong, but nowhere near strong enough to fight off the young warrior, unless she was possessed by some strength other than her own.

Legolas broke out of his paralyzed state and sprang forward, grabbing Nimoë by the arms just as she threw Caldarion off of her and began moving again towards the Chasm.  He pulled back against her with all of his strength, but it was not enough.  His feet could find no purchase on the smooth floor of the chamber, and he felt himself being pulled after her.

Abruptly, his forward motion slowed, and he glanced down.  Caldarion had rolled himself forward and wrapped his arms around Nimoë's ankles, holding her fast.  His face was contorted in agony and a terrible, piercing scream rose from his twisted lips.  "I am sorry, Legolas!  Morgoth took me for his own, and I have been forced to lead you here.  Do not let her near the Chasm.  If he touches her, she will be forced to use the Elfsong to bring him into this world.  Legolas, if Morgoth reaches Middle Earth, it will be the end of us all.  You must stop him!"  A new scream, even more agonized that the first was ripped from Caldarion, and Legolas felt his heart die.

Nimoë was still struggling, but with both her arms and her legs held she could not advance.  It was as if her body was being torn in two, as the magnetic pull of the Chasm drew her forward against the resisting weight of the two creatures clinging to her limbs.  _I am coming…  I hear your call, Master…  I will do your will…_

"Nimoë!  Beloved!  Fight him!  Dig deep within yourself.  You must fight him."

The voice reached her ears, but it was as if a strip of cloth had been bound over them, muffling the meaning.  Even more violently did she struggle then, and managed to loose her right foot from the weakening creature striving to keep her from her Master.  Using that foot, she pulled herself forward, dragging both of her captors behind her.

"Gilmin!  Raven!  Help us!"

Then there were four more hands on her, two wrapped around her waist, the others recapturing her free leg.  A gruff voice she thought she should recognize spoke, "If Morgoth reaches her, she will bring him into this world, but are we not doomed even if we escape?  His will still permeates into the hearts of Men, through the Rings.  We must find a way to bring her back to us.  She must use her power to stop him, or all is lost!"

Again her forward motion was stopped, but she had gained a good two meters towards the Chasm.  The creature that held her arms replied in a voice made harsh with emotion, "I will not lose her again, Gilmin.  We must get her out of here.  Surely there must be another way…"

From near her feet came the pain filled voice, "There is no other way, Legolas…  I know this from his own mind…"

Nimoë could feel the grip on her left leg losing strength, and she kicked out viciously.  She was rewarded by a pained grunt, and then her leg was free.  The closer she drew to the beckoning Chasm, the stronger she grew.  Against the three still clinging tenaciously to her she fought, dragging them forward, inch by agonizing inch.

Out of the Chasm a black cloud began to billow.  At first it rose straight upwards, but soon it began to take form; a twisted arm, a hand tipped with talons.  _Master!!!  Here I am!_

Legolas saw the cloud talon rise up out of the Chasm, and his pulse began to race.  _If that thing touches her…_  Galvanized, he released his grip on her arms long enough to push Gilmin away from her waist, and to throw her over his shoulder, kicking and screaming.

Raven grabbed at her legs, trying to keep them from inflicting damage to the Elf Prince, and Gilmin ran forward to aid Caldarion, who was lying, writhing in voiceless agony, on the sweltering floor.

The black hand, the grip of Morgoth, reached after them, moving slowly but relentlessly towards them.  Legolas glanced behind and saw that it was nearing.  "No," he swore under his breath, as harsh as cold steel.  "You will not take her from me."

If they could only escape the cavern, perhaps they would be far enough away to elude the Dark Lord's grasp.  Just a few more meters and then…

The ground beneath them shook, throwing Gilmin and Caldarion to the earth.  Legolas and Raven only just managed to retain their footing, but when Legolas looked towards the tunnel they had entered from, a reddish-orange glow was approaching, lighting the sides of the passageway as it came.

Once again the ground shook, and Legolas felt despair settle into the pit of his stomach.  He had experienced this before, in the Mines of Moria.  The Balrog was coming.

The Balrog was coming, and the ancient fire demon was blocking the only passage of escape.  They were trapped.  Morgoth's plan was succeeding.

_AAAIIII!!!!_  Caldarion ached to scream aloud, but the effort would have been too much.  He guessed that the only reason he was still alive and able to function, even minimally, was the fact that Morgoth's limited strength was stretched, as he trapped Nimoë's mind.  Having to split his energies had weakened his hold on the dark-haired Elf just enough that he was able to resist, to fight back.  Nimoë was the more valuable prize, and the Dark Lord was taking no chances.  The bulk of his strength was directed at the Elf maid.

As soon as Caldarion realized that the Balrog had blocked their path, he drew within himself, terrified.  Here was the very beast that had branded him, that had delivered him to the Darkness.  They were doomed.  There was no way to fight both the Balrog and Morgoth simultaneously.  With Nimoë under the Dark Lord's control, truly there was no way to fight either alone, let alone together.  Both foes were beyond the ability of swords and arrows to wound.

The smell of his own burning hair roused him from his reverie, along with Gilmin tugging at his arm, "Get up, Caldarion!  Make ready to fight!"

Using what little remained of his strength, Caldarion pulled himself off of the burning ground.  The putrid smell of melted hair assailed his nostrils, and he wondered how long he had lain there, after having been thrown by the approach of the Balrog.

He looked behind him and saw that the billowing smoky mass that was the presence of Morgoth in the physical world had grown, and he heard a low, rumbling laugh.  Glancing back at his companions, he saw that none of them seemed to hear the laughter.  It grew even louder with his realization, and he knew that Morgoth was speaking within his own mind.

_Did you really think that your puny attempt at valor would succeed, Elf?  Watch and tremble, for now you will witness my rebirth into the world, and you will share the honor of being the first victim of my wrath!_

Through the burning agony of pain, Caldarion cried out, "Legolas!  Go!"

Nimoë fought with a strength beyond her own, and Legolas was sore put to hold her captive.  His muscles burned with the strength needed to bind her to him, and he silently cried out to Elbereth for endurance.

The Balrog was growing ever nearer, and the heat in the chamber grew exponentially.  It was a marvel that they were not unconscious from the sweltering temperatures.  If he could have reached the wall of the cavern, Legolas would have tried to hide there, then dart past the Balrog as it entered, desperate as that might seem, but the boiling moat of lava separated them from the walls, leaving no place to hide.

They were surrounded by fire and by two enemies beyond their ability to fight.  Desperate, he set Nimoë down on her feet, pinning her against his body, with her arms held tight to her sides.  "Nimoë!  You must hear me!  Come back to us.  You are the only one who can save us.  Please!"

There was no response, and he shook her brutally, hoping that perhaps he could jar her back to her senses.  Still, the terrible haze remained over her grey eyes, leaving them dead, like volcanic ash, rather than their usual vibrant cloudy shade.  He could feel tears of frustration running down his cheeks, but ignored them, wracking his mind for any possible way of breaking Morgoth's hold before it was too late.

And then it was too late.

The Balrog loomed into view, and the grasping claw of Morgoth edged nearer still.  Raven and Gilmin took up a guarding position in front of Legolas and Nimoë, their weapons drawn, although they trembled, while Caldarion placed his back against his Prince, defending his dearest friends with his own tortured body from the terror that reached out from the Void.

There were only seconds left, and Legolas felt despair cascade over him.  Knowing that they were about to die, he leaned down to give his beloved one last kiss.


	26. Caldarion's Redemption

A familiar warmth pressed against Nimoë's lips, and for a split second she was aware of something outside of the terrible power dragging her towards the Chasm.  _What is that taste?  Why do I ache for this?_  Her eyes flashed open and she was startled to find another pair, blue as the dawn and brimming with unshed tears, staring down at her.

Immediately the face pulled away, and with it went the tingling sensation that had overwhelmed her lips and her senses.  _Come back!  I need you…  _Then there was nothing but the pull of the Chasm, and the beckoning gesture of the black Hand reaching out for her.

Legolas looked down at Nimoë with stunned surprise.  She had seen him!  Really seen him.  The look of wonder on her face as she recognized him gave him hope, but when he pulled away from the kiss, horror swept back over her, the will of Morgoth again driving her back to her single-minded purpose.

With all the strength in his body he held her captive and, although his eyes were drawn to the tunnel entrance, where soon the Balrog would loom into view, and back over his shoulder to the Hand of Morgoth, he pressed his lips to hers again.  It had worked once, surely it would work again.

The response was instantaneous.  Instead of struggling against his grasp, Nimoë melted against him, clinging to his body with an intensity that spoke to the magnitude of her terror.   He dared not break the kiss, not even to reassure her, for it was evident that the tangible demonstration of his love was the only thing holding her will to her body.

"Hai!  Legolas!  It comes!"  cried Gilmin, who backed away from the demon which materialized from the mouth of the tunnel.

It was just as Legolas remembered from the Mines of Moria: massive, seething with molten fire, black skin crisping with the heat of its own internal flame.  Its burning orange eyes glinted with malice as it strode forward into the chamber, its bulk dwarfing the five who cowered before it, struggling to keep their footing as its clawed feet shook the earth.

Legolas heard a groan from behind him, and felt Caldarion sink down to his knees.  The overwhelming terror that the Balrog brought with its very presence shuddered down through him to his toes, and Legolas could begin to understand why Caldarion had surrendered his soul.  But only begin.  He would rather die, or suffer eternal pain, than to betray his fellows.  This was an essential part of his nature, which was why he was such an effective leader, why his people loved him so fervently.  If he could have, he would gladly have sacrificed himself then and there to ensure the safety of the others, but such an option was not open to him.

It felt infinitely strange to him, staring down a Balrog over the head of his wife, while he kissed sanity into her being.  This was no way to fight!  There had to be a way to return her own mind to her, while freeing her lips to sing.  It was the only chance they had to survive.

Even as he pondered this, they were being driven back.  The Balrog advanced upon them, brandishing its whip of flame, cracking it threateningly over their heads.  While Gilmin and Raven remained between the Elves and the demon, they both cowered backwards, awed and frightened, knowing themselves unable to survive an assault.

"Why does it not attack?" shouted Raven, voicing the question which ran through the Elf Prince's own mind.

"It seeks to drive us to the Chasm.  To bring Nimoë to its master.  It need only force us back," replied Caldarion, in a weak voice, from behind Legolas.

With a tremendous roar, the Balrog opened its gaping jaws.  The screams of every innocent it had killed echoed out, magnified tenfold.  Raven fell to his knees, dropping his sword, and tried to cover his ears, to block out the sound.  Gilmin staggered backwards and tripped over Raven.

Legolas watched it horror as the Dwarf toppled, his arms waving like windmills, trying to right himself, but it was no use.  He fell hard, and crashed into Nimoë's back.  Legolas could no more stop their fall than single-handedly beat back the Balrog.  He tried to pull Nimoë close to him, to cushion her fall, to keep his lips locked with hers, but as he staggered backwards, he in turn tripped over Caldarion's prone form.

With a crash he landed, and his grip was broken by the force of the fall.  Nimoë rolled off of him, skidding across the heated ground.  Legolas vaguely heard his own scream of, "_NO!!!_" as she came to a stop, directly beneath the seeking Hand of Morgoth.

Like a serpent it struck, lifting Nimoë high into the air, where she hung suspended.  Heedless of his own safety, Legolas leapt to his feet and pulled his sword from its sheath.  Brandishing it in front of him, he ran towards the swirling mass of black haze that held the Elf maid in a vise-like grip.  Before he had taken five steps, he was thrown back, bowled over by a wave of power like nothing he had ever felt.

Nimoë was singing.

Her eyes were rolled back into her head, showing only the whites, and her body was stiff as death.  Legolas tried to rise, but found that he was pinned to the ground.  He looked behind him and saw that the others were similarly bound, trapped beneath a power stronger than their ability to fight.

The Balrog ceased its advance, and it lowered itself down on one massive knee, head bent as if awaiting command.

The singing stopped, but the crushing weight remained, and Legolas struggled futilely.  A strange, resonant laugh rang through the chamber, echoing off of the domed ceiling, bubbling in counterpoint with the molten magma that flowed about the base of the walls.

Legolas watched in horror as Nimoë's mouth opened and a voice, deep and undeniably masculine, poured forth, as strong as the sea, but full of venom.  "Foolish creatures!  You are weak.  Your minds are so easily toyed with."

Legolas heard a choked sob behind him, recognized it as Caldarion.  _So easily toyed with…_

"Now you will bear witness to my rebirth.  You have brought me the vessel.  Such a fair jewel…  To be the mother of a God!"

Legolas strained impotently to rise, to pull Nimoë away from the grip of the Hand of Morgoth.  What was the Valar suggesting?  That he would be literally born into the world?  _How?_

The very thought of his beloved bearing the essence of Evil within her womb was too much to bear, and the Elf Prince let out a roar of rage.  "Never!!!"

"**_SILENCE!!!_**"  The true power of Morgoth rolled over the four men, struggling on the cavern floor, so loud as to bring about momentary deafness.  Legolas felt his consciousness slipping with the sensory assault, and he gritted his teeth, doggedly hanging on to his awareness.

He knew then when Nimoë began to sing.  Her voice rose strong and true, a melody like none he had ever heard, calling to mind the creatures that slink in the mud of the deepest swamps and, at the same time, the inevitability of the tide.  _No.  NO!!!_

As he watched, unable to intervene, her body began to convulse in the grip of the talon tipped cloud.  The fabric of her song wavered, then ceased, as she bent in half, clasping her arms around her belly, her face twisting in agony.  Her skin went sheer white, and for a moment Legolas saw her raise her face to his.  He could see the grey irises of her eyes, pleading with him, begging him to stop the pain.

Tears fell unheeded down his face, for he could do nothing.  He could not fight the power of Morgoth, given substance through her song.

The sounds of sobbing behind him went almost unheard, along with mutterings of, "I cannot…  He will kill me…  But the power is not enough…  I can fight him…  But I must not…"

Then Raven's voice spoke out, "Now is the time to prove your worth, Elf.  You have already shown yourself capable of treachery.  Yet now you can save us all.  Save the girl, and your debt shall be paid."

Unable to comprehend what he was hearing, Legolas glanced over his shoulder.  Caldarion was in a half-crouch, his features twisted in a death rictus, but his eyes burning with the fire of conviction.

With a howl, the young Elf launched himself forward.  Legolas heard the crunching sound of bones snapping as Caldarion broke through the barrier of power.  Ignoring the pain, he staggered forward, screaming, "_You shall not defeat me!!!_"__

His sword raised high, he swung madly at the base of the cloud arm, slashing through the swirling mass, severing the Hand of Morgoth from its link to the Void.

As Nimoë crashed to the ground, the stump of the cloud arm flailed wildly, and before Legolas could react, it crashed into Caldarion's broken body, sending him staggering forward.

The last words he spoke before he plunged headlong into the seething Void were, "Save them all, Legolas!"


	27. How to Stop a Balrog

The moment that Caldarion severed the Hand of Morgoth and Nimoë crashed to the heated floor of the chamber, the weight pressing Legolas to the ground vanished.  There was not time to save Caldarion, but the Elf Prince leapt to his feet and scrambled the few feet to where Nimoë lay, her eyes closed in a dead faint, her moon-pale hair pooled on the ground beneath her, beginning to singe.

The great black stump of the cloud arm still swung madly overhead, so Legolas dropped into a low crouch and pulled Nimoë away from the gaping maw of the Chasm.  "Nimoë, wake up.  Please!"

She moaned and her head began to swing back and forth, as if forcibly denying him.  Her hands clutched spasmodically around her belly and tears began to seep from the closed corners of her eyes.

"Legolas!" shouted Raven.  "The Balrog!"

A glance told him that the fire demon was no longer waiting for the commands of Morgoth.  It rose to its massive feet and raised its burning whip, daring them to try to flee.

Raven and Gilmin stumbled backwards, terrified.  Gilmin pulled a throwing axe from his boot and hurled it with all of his Dwarvish strength towards the beast.  The Balrog only laughed, a sound as mirthless as the wails of tortured children, as the axe embedded itself in its molten flesh.

Dwarf, Elf and Hobbit watched amazed as the metal of the axe melted into liquid, and the handle burst into violent flame.  It seemed for a moment that the Balrog paused, reveling in the powerlessness of its foes, but then it charged forward, hand outstretched to lay its burning touch on the face of Gilmin, who was closest.

The Dwarf retreated, but could not go far, for the Chasm lay behind them, pulsing with malice, drawing them towards its depths.  Seeing that he had was doomed, Gilmin cried in defiance, "I would rather die than serve your master!  Even he cannot control the dead!"

Legolas watched in stunned silence as the Dwarf seized the sword from Raven's hands.  Had the Hobbit been expecting the move, he could have resisted but, as it was, Gilmin successfully wrenched it away, then moved to place his body in front of his friends, to buy them a few more seconds of life.  Perhaps give them that much more chance to escape alive.

Time seemed to slow to a snail's pace as Legolas watched Gilmin lift the sword high above him, the tip pointed at his own burly chest.  The Balrog gave a scream of rage and lunged, hoping to reach the Dwarf before he could fulfill his threat.  Dead men were indeed of no use to its Master.

The point of the sword plunged downwards and the Balrog fell forward, hand outstretched.  Legolas could not tell which would strike first, but he heard his own voice screaming in denial.

And then both combatants were knocked to the ground.

Gilmin lay, stunned and blinking, trying to decide if he was still alive, or if he was doomed to walk this moment for all of his afterlife.  Raven's sword lay inches from his fingertips, where it had been thrown by the weight of his fall.  His gnarled hand came up and felt over his chest, and his face registered amazement that he was not torn and bleeding.

The scream of the Balrog sounded again, but this time Legolas did not hear it.  All his thought was on the other voice that filled the chamber.  Haunting, aching song, the likes of which he had never heard in his long lifetime swirled on the sweltering air.  He dropped his face back to the Elf maid in his arms, and saw that she was staring out at the Balrog, her eyes open but glazed.  _Was she still in the power of_ _Morgoth?_

No.  It could not be, for although her eyes were glassy, they were her own, the pure grey that he loved with all his heart.  A terrible rumbling began to grow around them, and Legolas pulled Nimoë tight against him, afraid of what new horror might be approaching.

Abruptly, the ground began to shake.  At first it was as gentle as a boat rocking on a calm sea, but then all of the occupants of the chamber were forced to their hands and knees, clinging to the earth to keep from being flung haphazardly into the molten rivers of lava, or into the Chasm of the Void.

A great groaning began above them, and Gilmin stared up at the ceiling in horror.  "Back!  Get back!" he screamed, struggling to pull himself over the heaving ground towards the edge of the Void, away from the source of the groan, which was now punctuated by terrible popping noises.

As he went, he grabbed Raven by the wrist, dragging the lighter man after him.  The Hobbit helped as best he could, scrabbling with his feet against the violent earth.  His coal-dark eyes were wide with fear, as if he also recognized the sound.

Legolas managed to drag Nimoë back with him, although her body was completely limp, all of her strength being thrown into her song.  In caves, there was no one that Legolas trusted more than a Dwarf.  If Gilmin told him to move, he moved without question.

As he reached the Dwarf's side, Gilmin shoved Legolas down, and swung himself up over the heads of the two Elves and the Hobbit, shielding them with his own stronger body.

So it was that Gilmin was the only one who saw the ceiling begin to crumble.  His eyes were wide with awe and wonder as the very rock of the mountain began to collapse, raining down on the body of the Balrog, pinning it, and burying it beneath tons of volcanic rock.

Dust swirled angrily from the rent stone, biting into Gilmin's eyes, burning in his nose, but he watched on, unable to tear his gaze away.  After many long moments the violent shaking ceased and the Dwarf realized that he could no longer hear Nimoë's voice pulsing through the air.

Quickly he rolled off of his friends, shaking the rubble that had landed upon him from his body.  Raven staggered to his feet, staring in wonder at the vast pile of stone, holding the Balrog captive.

Nimoë raised her head weakly and said, "It will not be held for long.  We must get past it and into the tunnel."

Gilmin helped Legolas pull Nimoë to a standing position, and together the companions clambered over the shifting prison of the fire demon.  Great jets of steam lanced upward from beneath them, evidence that the heat of the Balrog's body was melting the rocks, but the way was still solid enough for them to pass.

Raven crossed first, then reached out to help the Dwarf and the Elf Prince lower Nimoë down to the floor.  Once across the rockfall, the four companions crossed quickly into the relative safety of the old lava tunnel.

Nimoë wrenched herself away from the arms of her husband and Gilmin, leaning herself against the rough wall of the tunnel.  She stared back into the chamber, where the stump of the cloud arm was again beginning to manifest fingers, and the Balrog struggled to free itself from the crushing weight pinning it fast.

Her fingers moved to her belly, stroking unconsciously, while she screwed together her courage.  She turned to face the others, who were urging her to run while they could.  Then, to her surprise, the rumbling began again, and the telltale quaking of the ground vibrated up through her feet.

"Go," she whispered.  "Get out of the mountain.  I must stay behind.  I must seal the Chasm, and close Morgoth off from this world."

Legolas stared at her with disbelieving eyes.  "I am not leaving you, beloved.  Orodruin has awoken.  We must flee or we are all doomed."

"_I said RUN!_" she screamed, begging him go.  To escape.  This was not his place to die.

When he showed no inclination to follow her command, she turned and pounded her fist into the solid rock of the wall, frustration and fear overwhelming her.  Tears rolled unchecked down her face, and she felt as though she was being torn in two.  Her duty was to seal the Chasm, but her heart and mind ached.  Not for herself.  Not even for Legolas.

For the new life that was even now blossoming in her womb.

The life that had saved them all.

Author's Note:  Thanks for all your kind thoughts.  My little boy is just fine, and being a little terror like usual.  I really appreciate your support.  It's nice to know that there are people out there who will care about you, even if they don't really know you.  You guys are great! ;-D


	28. Song of the Heart

"I will never leave you, Nimoë.  In life, or in death, I will never be separated from you again," declared Legolas.  "Do what you must, then we will flee."

Through the haze of her tears Nimoë saw that Gilmin and Raven were standing steadfastly beside the Elf, looking resolute and immutable.  They would not leave them behind.  It was clear that they were leaving together or not at all.

Finally nodding her acceptance, Nimoë pulled herself fully upright, away from the support of the stone wall, closed her eyes and began to sing.  This was a different song still from any she had used before.  Not only did she need to physically move the rock, she needed to seal the less physical chasm, the rent in the fabric of time and space that led into the Void.

Truly, she did not know if she would succeed.

_One step at a time, Nimoë_, she coached herself.  _First the Balrog_.  That was the easy part.  _Easy?!_  The corner of her mind that was still her own laughed at the thought as she forced the very stone to her will.  A great scraping sound, like a giant serpent being dragged over harsh ground, filled her ears as she forced the rocks which held the Balrog prisoner forward.

Still captive, but having nearly worked its way free, the Balrog howled, understanding what was happening.  It was being drawn inexorably towards the Void.  If it could not break free of its bonds, it would join its master for good.

Even a Balrog can fear, so it seemed.  Its struggles increased tenfold sending a hail of stones in all directions as it shook and fought, dragging its taloned feet along the slick cavern floor.

It was to no avail.  Nimoë pressed her song onward.  All the malice she felt towards the creature, for its heinous crime against Caldarion, kept her strong, did not allow her to falter.  With a final wail, the giant pile of twisting, melting rubble, still holding the Balrog, fell through the Chasm, leaving only the resonating echo of its last cry.

Nimoë staggered, exhausted by the power that she had used in the last minutes.  She would have fallen, but Legolas was there, holding her firm against his own body, letting her focus all of her strength on what needed to be done, rather than such sundry things as standing.

A rush of love and tenderness swept over her, and she took heart from it.  Her husband would never desert her.  Or their child.  _Their child!_  The idea of it took her breath away, leaving her in awe and wonder.

Never had she known such fear as when Morgoth had made known to her his plan.   Within her mind he showed her a vision of herself, swollen with child.  She was still within the cavern, still suspended by the great Hand of Morgoth.  Then, as she watched the vision unfold, her body began swelling still further, the Dark Lord's own seed growing to full form within her tiny body.  As it grew, so fast, so very fast, it began to tear at her from the inside, eating away at her body, using it for sustenance, like a spider consumes its mother, until, only a few minutes after it had begun to grow, she had ceased to exist, and Morgoth was all that remained, fully formed and vital in his power.

And there was nothing she could do to stop him.  Her body had shivered with the sensation of evil entering into her womb, and the wrenching, stabbing pain that went with it.  She tried to scream, but her mind was not her own.  Then, when death had seemed inevitable, the cold worm invading her body had recoiled, falling away from her, and the voice of Morgoth screamed in her mind, _A CHILD!  IT CANNOT BE!_

There was hardly time to breathe, to think, but she understood what had happened.  When she and Legolas had joined together, they had managed to create new life.  That one time had been enough.  Enough to block Morgoth's return, at least momentarily.  He could not implant himself within her, for her own child barred the way.  Too much of him was invested in controlling both herself and Caldarion, as well as holding the others captive, for him to kill the tiny fetus that lay, in all its innocence, between himself and his goal.  He would have to drop one thing for a moment, and use that moment to attack the babe.

That moment was all that was needed.  The next thing she knew, her mind was again her own and she was plummeting to the earth.  As she struck the hard ground, the force of her landing knocked her into unconsciousness.

As she stood now, leaning her weight on Legolas, her thoughts swirled around the new life dwelling within her.  It was too early to feel any signs of its presence, but if she looked with her mind's eye, she could only wonder how she had remained in ignorance.  _I must succeed.  It is the only way to guarantee my child's safety_.

Suddenly she understood the impulse that had led Mendiel, her second birth mother, to sacrifice herself to save the child that Nimoë had once been.  There was no stronger love than that of a mother for her child.  Reaching deep into the pool of power that love had built within her, Nimoë again gave voice to song.  Not for revenge.  Not for power.  Only for the love of her child, the love of her husband, the love of her world.  This song came straight from her heart, undiluted by contaminated thought.  Pure, unadulterated love.

And the Chasm began to mend.  The gaping, torn edges in the physical plane creaked towards each other, mirrored by the invisible, yet tangible, fabric of space and time.  Instinctively, Nimoë knew that had she approached this task in any other way, she would have failed.  The Chasm was built of hatred and fear.  Nothing but its antithesis would serve to seal it shut.

Orodruin trembled violently, reacting to the shifting forces within it, like a great beast with acute indigestion.  Legolas managed to hold her steady, but she knew that she had to finish quickly, or they would be trapped when the great fire mountain expelled its pent up evil.

Near to fainting from exhaustion, Nimoë forced herself to continue, sagging against her husband, who held her firmly, murmuring reassurances in her ear.  "I love you, Nimoë.  I love you in this world and the next.  I love you forever, through life and through death.  We are one."

_More than you know, dear heart_, she thought in the confines of her mind.  _More than you know_.

At last, the ragged edges of the Chasm touched.  There was only a moment for Nimoë to notice that she had succeeded, and then a resounding explosion rumbled through the mountain.

"Legolas, now!" cried Gilmin.

Nimoë struggled to stand alone, to flee, but her legs failed her.

Not wasting a moment, Legolas picked her up and threw her unceremoniously over his shoulder.  It was uncomfortable for her, but he would be able to run faster than if he held her in front of him.  Nimoë struggled to keep her eyes open, to remain conscious, but it was a losing battle.  The last thing she saw was a haze of scalding steam bursting up from a new rent in the floor of the tunnel to their left.  The old lava tube was about to resume its original purpose.

Author's Note:  SO sorry about the long wait.  Did I say that things would be calming down?  My bad.  I had an audition tape due yesterday and at the last minute I discovered that I had not recorded enough music.  So I had to scramble to get more recording time, find music, get accompaniment, and get it all done in one week.  Note to self:  DO NOT PROCRASTINATE!  ALWAYS TIME MUSIC AHEAD OF TIME!!!

Okay, I feel a little better now.

Anyway, the tape is done and sent, and this time things really should be calming down.  Look for the next chapter hopefully within the next day.


	29. Flight from Orodruin

Legolas dashed through the violently quaking tunnel, his footing sure, his body given new strength by the knowledge that if he did not run as fast he had ever run, he would not live to see another day, and neither would Nimoë.  Gilmin and Raven staggered behind, clumsier than the agile Elf, but with dogged determination.  Gilmin brought up the rear, and he shouted out to the leaders, "The lava is rising in the cracks!  Faster!"

With unerring accuracy, Legolas chose the correct turnings, following the path they had entered towards the new dangers of the plains of Gorgoroth.  Even outside of the mountain they would not be safe from its wrath.

Just as the dim light of the day swam into view ahead of them, Gilmin let out a terrified yell.  "The lava is in the tunnel!  We are lost!"

"Not lost, Gilmin!" cried Legolas, knowing that the Dwarf could not yet see the exit.  "The mouth of the tunnel is nigh.  We must run only a few hundred meters more."

Raven muttered under his breath, "Few hundred meters, he says.  That's nice when you're an Elf.  Legs as long as my body."

Even in their dire circumstances, Legolas could not suppress a wry grin at the Hobbit's comment.  It must be difficult to keep up with him, even burdened as he was.  He readjusted Nimoë on his shoulder and ran on, not turning to look behind him.  Seeing the burning danger seeping closer would not make him move more quickly.  Better to watch his footing and be certain not to stumble.

Only a minute later he sped forth from the mouth of the tunnel into the deep chasm they had followed through Gorgoroth.  Raven and Gilmin came through at his heels, and finally Legolas risked a glance behind.  The leading edge of the lava flow was mere meters behind them, and approaching rapidly.  If they remained where they were they would be trapped just as certainly as they would have been within the mountain.  They had to get out of the chasm.

Legolas peered up the steep edges, searching for a path that they could all follow.  Nothing presented itself, but the white heat of the molten river was so near now that the Elf could feel perspiration beading on his brow.  "We have no choice.  We must go up."

Grasping the crumbling earth with the fingers of his right hand, while still holding Nimoë firm over his left shoulder, Legolas started up the wall.  With each step it felt as if he lost half of the distance he gained, as his feet slid back down through the brittle dirt.

He could hear Gilmin and Raven toiling to his right, a little ahead, since they had the use of both their arms.  A glance down told him that the floor of the chasm had been swallowed up by the steaming lava.  One good slip and they would be dead, burned to a crisp.

He tested the stability of his footholds, then reached up again with his right hand.  Just before he could get a firm grip, the ground beneath his left foot gave way and he began to plummet downward.  Grasping instinctively, his right hand found a solid hold, and he managed to stop his fall, although Nimoë's added weight nigh ripped his arm from its socket.

A strangled cry sprang from his throat as he struggled to find footing, to relieve the terrible weight on his right arm.  He felt Nimoë begin to slip off of his shoulder, and struggled more desperately, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes as he fought to save them both.

When he thought that he could not hold on another instant, some of the burden was suddenly relieved.  He looked to his right and saw Raven, his face strained, grasping him by his leather belt, pulling upwards, allowing him that much more strength to find his footing.  With the burden lightened, he was able to lift his legs higher, and at last he found first a left foothold, then a right.

For a moment he simply leaned in against the wall, breathing convulsively, resting the strained muscles of his arm.  Then he gasped, "Thank you, Raven.  You have saved us both."

The Hobbit's voice was brusque as he replied, "Do not thank me yet.  The lava is rising.  We must continue.  Now."

Grimly, Legolas again began the grueling climb.  A meter from the top, he heard Gilmin's voice call down to him, "Hand her up to me, when you are close enough."

With two more moves, the Elf gladly allowed the sturdy Dwarf to pull Nimoë's limp form the last way.  Finally unburdened, Legolas was able to scale the final feet easily.

At the top, all three men lay panting, trying to regain their strength to continue their flight.  Around them lay the dead plains of Gorgoroth.  Bare and colorless, strewn with boulders flung from Orodruin in past eruptions, there was little to recommend it to them, but that the lava might take longer to reach them there.

After only five minutes of rest, they staggered again to their feet.  Legolas bent to again pull Nimoë over his shoulder, but as he did so, her eyes fluttered open.  "Legolas?  Are we alive?"

"Aye, love, though not for long if we do not flee," he replied, his hand caressing her cheek.

She nodded weakly, and whispered a few words, so quietly that Legolas could not hear them.  "What was that, Nimoë?" he asked.

A look of joy spread over her face, and her grey eyes lightened as she repeated herself, more strongly this time, "I carry our child, Legolas.  We are going to have a baby."

Legolas stared down at her in amazement.  "How can you know this, Nimoë?  It is too soon…"

A small shudder went through her at the memory of Morgoth invading her body.  "I cannot tell you now, but when we are safe then I will tell you all.  Just trust me that what I say is true.  We must survive, if not for our sakes, then for the sake of our child."

Legolas gathered the frail maid that was the soul of his heart to his breast, holding her with all the gentle ferocity of his emotion.  A baby!  It was too good to be true.  In the midst of all of this turmoil and terror, Nimoë would bring forth a child, the most innocent and pure of all things.  He pressed a kiss into her hair and rocked her back and forth, overwhelmed by her declaration.

Gilmin's gruff voice broke into his reverie, saying, "Congratulations to the both of you, but if we do not leave now, I cannot say that the child will live to be born."

With a shake, Legolas brought his mind back to their present dangers.  "Are you strong enough to run, Nimoë?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

Legolas offered his hand to his wife and pulled her to her feet.  Then, casting his eyes to their other companions, he said, "We run."

The ground still shook sporadically, so their flight was difficult, but there were no other natural obstacles to their path.  The groans and explosions coming from Orodruin were enough to keep their feet moving, even when utter exhaustions should have borne them to the ground.  Nimoë gathered enough of her strength to sing her sustaining song and under its influence they were able to cover a great distance quickly.

After eight long hours of running, they finally began to feel safe.  Legolas dropped his pace down to a slow trot, allowing some small amount of rest for his numbed limbs.  They were drawing nearer to the southern mountains, where the clear path lay into the land of Nurn.  A high ridge rose to their left, covered with boulders, and after a glance at Nimoë, her face haggard and her feet stumbling, Legolas about to suggest a rest when a large black shape loomed out from behind a nearby stone.

_A Warg!_  Legolas cursed under his breath.  If it wasn't one thing, then it was another. _When will we be free of all this fighting?  When can we walk in the gardens of Valinor?_

Raven pushed to the front and glared out at the beast.  "You master is gone, foul creature.  Gone as well is his minion.  It would be wise for you and your kind to retreat back into Gorgoroth, for only there will the people of Middle Earth leave you free, and not hunt you down and kill all of your breed."

The Warg rumbled deep in its chest and its upper lip curled back, revealing sharp pointed teeth, and a line of saliva hanging from its jaws.  Without warning it sprang, its massive paws aimed for Raven's chest, its teeth for his exposed throat.

Before it could reach him, however, it was knocked back, dead, with Legolas' arrow sticking through its skull.  A howl rose up all about them, raising the hairs on the backs of their necks, and Nimoë, Gilmin, Legolas and Raven stared up at the hillside.  From behind each of the strewn boulders crept a Warg.

_We are dead_, thought Legolas.  _There is no way we can fight so many at once_.

Then, to their utter surprise, the black beasts turned and ran, their tails tucked between their legs, strange, sorrowful whines coming from their throats.

Nimoë dropped from her erect position, hand clenched on her mother's knife, and fell to her knees in relief. Unable to move another step, she looked about her, and her eyes opened wide, as she made a realization.  "Legolas," she whispered, "Where is Caldarion?"


	30. Return

For a moment Legolas did not respond, unwilling to give Nimoë more pain, but at Gilmin's encouraging nod, he knelt down in front of her and replied, "I am sorry, Nimoë.  Caldarion was lost to the Chasm.  He saved you from the clutches of Morgoth.  He saved us all."

The Elf maid stared back at him, clearly not fully comprehending his words.  Then, abruptly, her face crumpled and it seemed that the willpower that had held her upright for the last hours fled from her body.  Tears, mingled with the dust of their flight, rolled unchecked down her face, and she silently leaned in toward the tall Elf Prince, clinging to his body, releasing the long pent up fears and her new, personal grief.

Legolas wrapped his arms around her shaking body protectively, offering her what little comfort he could.  Caldarion had been a dear friend to her, and he understood what is was to lose a friend.  When Gimli had finally passed from the living world, he had been heartsick.  And so, using his own experience as a guide, her gave her the comfort that he had had no one to give to him, so many years past, which he would likely have been too proud to accept, had any chosen to offer.

A small hand alit on his shoulder and Raven's voice said, "We do not have time for this.  We must keep going until we are back in Núrnelven.  Only there will I truly begin to feel safe."

Nimoë nodded her head minutely against Legolas' shoulder.  Lifting her face up, she angrily dashed her tears away with the back of her hand.  "I am sorry.  This is indeed not the time for mourning."  Her eyes hardened and she stared up at her companions, saying, "When we reach Núrnelven, then I will mourn him properly.  He was a good man, and I would have him remembered so."

So saying, she rose stumblingly to her feet and Legolas reached to steady her, concern writ plain on his face.  _She should not exert herself so…  It cannot be safe for her or for the babe._

Nimoë knew him well, and she understood his expression.  With soft fingers she traced the strong line of his jaw.  "Do not fear for us, Legolas.  If this child could withstand the power of Morgoth, he can certainly survive the journey home."

"He?"

A shy smile crossed her lips, and she cast her eyes downward.  "Aye.  The child I bear is a boy."  Raising her eyes again, she gazed unwaveringly at Legolas' clear blue stare.  "He will be strong, cunning and wise like his father.  And he will run like the wind, for did you not travel great distances in the Third Age, when hunting for Pippin and Merry?  The journey to Núrnelven will be as nothing to him."

"I seem to recall his mother being along for that journey," Legolas replied, wryly,  "And she sustained us all with her song, just as she will now."  He pulled her close in one last embrace before turning again south.  "You are the strongest woman I have ever known, Nimoë.  I do not know what I did to deserve you."

The two Elves exchanged a sustaining kiss, then, with Gilmin and Raven on their heels, once again began the long journey to Núrnelven.

The sun was rising in the east, floating in a gold and scarlet haze, when the four runners came within sight of the northern watchtower of the city.  A great clamor went up, which sounded like someone beating on all the cooking pots of a household simultaneously, and Legolas and Nimoë glanced at each other in amazement.  Before they had departed, Legolas had left an order to make some form of alarm for the watchtowers.  It seemed that his command had been followed.

Bellowing to make himself heard over the ruckus, Legolas shouted, "It is Legolas!  We have returned!  Do not fear!  We are your friends!"

The clanging subsided, then an answering shout rolled over the crisp morning air, "Legolas!  Nimoë!"  The two watched in wonder as the Elf in the watchtower dropped her weapons and ran, slipping and stumbling, down the twisting stair of the tower.  The figure's cloak fell back as she ran towards them, revealing flowing flaxen hair, and her features.

Nimoë let out a choked cry, "Mother!"  Given new strength, she rushed past the others, desperate for the welcome of her mother's embrace.  It was as if the long tortuous hours had never happened as she sprinted towards the approaching Elf.

Tinunél and Nimoë reached each other and were borne to the ground with the force of the younger Elf's embrace.  Tears of joy spread down both fair faces as they pressed kisses of welcome and to each others' cheeks, forehead and lips.

"Mother, I was so afraid that I would never see you again," sobbed Nimoë, once again a child in Tinunél's arms.  "I did not think that I would live…  I didn't know what to do…  Oh, mother, I love you so much!"

By that time the others had reached to happy reunion.  Legolas smiled down at the entwined women.  He had chosen well when he selected Nimoë's foster parents.  The love they bore for each other was clearly as strong as any birth parent for their child.

Then Nimoë was tugging on his hand, childlike in her eagerness, "Mother, Legolas and I are going to be parents!  Morgoth is defeated and I am pregnant!"  A shadow swept over her face.  "Caldarion is gone, though.  He likely died to save us."

A sour mutter came from behind her, "After he brought us to the brink of disaster."

The young Elf maid leapt to her feet and towered over Raven, startling them all with her vehemence, "Caldarion redeemed himself in the end.  If he had not brought us to that place, we would have never been able to seal the Dark Lord away.  You will not speak ill of him.  Caldarion is a hero!"

Raven backed away, his hands raised apologetically in front of him.  "As you say!  As you say!  I meant no harm, Lady, I swear it!"

All the anger went out of her body and she sagged.  Bringing her hand to her forehead, she said, "I am sorry, too, Raven.  You also are a hero, and you deserve better from me."  With a small gasp, she began to waver on her feet.  In a small voice, she breathed, "I am so very tired now.  I think I need to sleep…"

Legolas caught her up before she hit the ground, cradling her in his arms.  Tinunél was beside him in an instant, her face clouded with worry.  "It is only exhaustion," explained Legolas.  "She has suffered worse than the rest of us, but I think that we all must seek our beds."

So saying, he led the small party towards the settlement.  A score of Elves were racing towards them, weapons drawn, having been summoned by the alarm rung by Tinunél.  When they recognized their Prince, however, their shouts of alarm were replaced by cries of welcome.

Legolas briefly explained that the great evil had been stopped, but urged them still to guard against marauding minions.  Then, heedless of their requests for more details, he forged his way through them, intent on bringing Nimoë to a bed, and to rest himself.  Gilmin and Raven went with Tinunél to the Healing House, where they could rest comfortably.

Once within his own dwelling, Legolas placed Nimoë's limp form onto the bed where they had so recently created a new life.  A ewer of clean water was still sitting on the small dressing table, and he pulled out a clean cloth to bathe the dirt of the quest off of her fair form.

With tender care he pulled her travel-worn garments off of her, dressing her in one of his own shirts, which were stored in a nearby chest.  Using the cloth, he washed the dirt from her face, neck and hands, then, holding a basin under her head, he poured the contents of the ewer over her hair, rinsing it clean.  Through it all, she did not even blink, so fully exhausted was she.

Once he had finished his task to his satisfaction, Legolas went to retrieve more water, to clean himself.  With that done, he dressed himself, for he had one last task to complete before he could rest, one that he was not looking forward to in the slightest.

Out in the lanes of Núrnelven, he quickly found Telarion.  Taking him aside, near the shores of the Sea of Nurn, the Elf Prince gently broke the news of Caldarion's disappearance, and supposed death.  While he expected Telarion to weep at word of the loss of his brother, the young Elf surprised him.  "He was alive when he fell into the Chasm, was he not?" he asked.

"He was," acknowledged Legolas.

"Then I shall assume that he is living still.  I will not give up hope of seeing him again some day," Telarion vowed.

Somewhat relieved, Legolas took his leave.  He was a bit distraught that Telarion would not acknowledge the very real likelihood that Caldarion was forever gone, but decided not to pursue the matter, if it gave the younger Elf comfort to think otherwise.

At last free to sleep, Legolas returned to his dwelling.  There he pulled off all his clothes but a soft linen undershirt, and crept into the bed, drawing Nimoë into his arms.  As tired as he was, he could not immediately sleep.  Instead he lay there, his lips pressed into his wife's still damp hair, and allowed his mind to relive the last dreadful days, and to ponder the miracle that was awaiting him.

Finally, with one hand rested on Nimoë's still shapely belly, he allowed his eyes to close, to experience the rejuvenation of full sleep.  It would be a long time before the two Elves would wake.


	31. Caldarion

Author's Note:  Another chapter!  We are getting close to the end, but we're not there quite yet.  Bear with me…  Also, if you would like a glimpse into my somewhat bizarre psyche, check out my fic "Eve."  It is based very closely off of a dream that I had.  I was so intrigued by it that I had to write it down before I could forget everything, which is partly why this chapter was so long in coming.  That said, onward with the tale!

Months passed by in a haze of preparation.  Legolas sent scouts over the Mountains of Shadow to observe Men, to see whether the sealing off of Morgoth had freed them from the tarnished influence of the nine Rings of Power.

Nimoë volunteered to go with them, but Legolas had sternly forbidden it.  Her body had blossomed with pregnancy, and her skin held the blush of a new rose.  She felt healthy and strong, but Legolas' constant hovering and protectiveness was beginning to move from endearing to frustrating.  

"I am not ill, Legolas!  I am pregnant.  The two are not the same.  You need not treat me like an invalid!" she had once cried in consternation when he had insisting on carrying her plate to the dinner table, calling it "heavy".  Still, she knew that his urge to protect came from his deep love for her, and for the boy she carried in her womb.

A few months after that incident, a knock sounded on her door and she looked up from the receiving blanket she was knitting.  "Who is there?"

"It is Raven."

Carefully, Nimoë laid her work down on the table, and beckoned, "Come in."

The door swung open and Raven stepped into the room, his right hand behind his back.  He dropped her a short bow, then swept out his hidden hand, revealing a bouquet of the few spring flowers that grew along the Sea of Nurn.  A tinge of redness colored his cheeks as he said, "An offering for you and for the child.  How long will it be now?"

Nimoë reached out to accept the flowers, inhaling deeply of their pleasant scent.  "Thank you, Raven.  It should not be long now.  Perhaps a week, give or take a little."  She rested her hand on her swollen abdomen, smiling as the vigorous babe within gave her a firm kick.  "He is anxious to join us."

Raven bowed his head, his face suddenly serious.  "Nimoë, may I sit and have a word with you?"

"Of course!" she replied, surprised.  "You need not ask."

The Hobbit moved to the second chair at the table and hoisted himself up.  Once seated he remained still for a long moment staring at his hands.  Nimoë did not press him to speak, seeing that something of great import was weighing on his mind, allowing him time to speak his thoughts.

At last, he began.  "I must beg your forgiveness, Nimoë.  I have been brusque.  I have been stand-offish.  I have been rude.  For many long years I have felt as if I dwelt with a shadow on my soul.  No matter where I looked, something was hiding, ready to strike me dead.  I accepted this as the reason for my surliness, but I find now that it must have been something more.  Ever since you sealed Morgoth into his prison, the cloud has begun to lift.  It was slow at first, but in recent months it has been as if I were seeing the world through new eyes."

He glanced up at her before continuing.  "I have been spending my hours with your foster mother, and she has given me her theory, which I have a tendency to believe.  It is said by the Elves of old that Hobbits are related to Men, that they share ancestry.  This is lore that is lost to us, but if it is true, it would explain much.  The nine rings of Men exerted great power, corrupting their minds and wresting them away from the side of right.  Tinunél believes that the rings were the cause of my bleakness.  If the blood of Men still flows in my veins, then I would be susceptible to the power of the rings, but that blood was not pure enough to render me helpless.  So as I fought against the foul corruption of Morgoth, I fell into anger and spite."

Here he took a deep breath to steady his nerve.  "My greatest regret is that I allowed that power to rule me, and in doing so I caused my friends pain.  I apologize profoundly for ever sullying Caldarion's name.  I believe that I now understand some small portion of what he fought.  Can you forgive me?"

Nimoë stared at the Hobbit who had become her friend.  "How can you ask such a thing, Raven?  I had forgiven you long ago.  If the power of the rings has released you, then I can only rejoice, and I look forward to knowing the Raven who would bring me flowers, who is joyful in life.  It has been a sorrow for me see what had become of a race that was once so full of laughter."

Raven hopped down off of the chair, anxious to be away now that his piece was said.  "I'll leave to your work," he mumbled.  "Gilmin is expecting me to help him… move some logs."

Nimoë laughed under her breath as the Hobbit scurried from the room.  _Move logs, indeed_.  She picked up her skein of soft yarn and her needles and again began to knit, eager to finish the blanket before the baby was born.

Only three days later Nimoë was strolling with Legolas along the shores of the Sea of Nurn.  Her back had been bothering her all day long, with sharp twinges of pain.  Anxious to relieve some of the tension, she had announced her intention of going for a walk, and Legolas had leapt up, insisting on accompanying her.

Truly she was grateful for his presence as she stared out over the inland sea.  The waters sparkled a clear blue, reflecting back the sun's soft rays.  Nimoë lifted her foot to take a step, but was brought up short as a sharp pain cramped across her body, radiating from her back all the way around her middle.

She gasped at the sudden intense pain and clutched for Legolas' hand, to support herself.  Immediately he was at her side, his arm wrapped around her, allowing her to rest her weight against him.  Relieved, Nimoë focused her whole attention on breathing and surviving the pain.

When she finally straightened she looked up and saw Legolas staring down at her, her eyes clouded with worry.  "Are you alright, Nimoë?  Do you need anything?"

She nodded, and bit down on her lower lip anxiously.  "Aye.  I need my mother."

Legolas' eyes flew wide and he stared at her.  "Is it time?"

"I think so.  Please, let's go back."

They had taken only a few steps when again Nimoë was folded in half, staggered by the terrible numbing pain.  Legolas held her tightly, his heart racing in fear as she breathed raggedly, her limbs shaking.  
When it was finally over, she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.  "This is happening too fast, Legolas.  I need my mother _now_."

Seeing her fear pushed Legolas over the edge.  Without pausing for thought he pulled her up into his arms, although she was now a heavier burden, and ran towards the city.  He did not pause when she again cried out, pulling her knees to her chest, hoping to relieve the agony of her cramping muscles.

Within minutes he reached the Healing House, and he slammed the door open with his hip, moving straight to an empty cot.  "Tinunél!" he cried.  "Tinunél, Nimoë needs you!"

The older Elf popped out from behind the curtain that separated her living quarters from the rest of the house.  With one glance at her foster daughter, doubled in agony on the cot, she took charge of the situation.  "Legolas," she commanded, "Go and fetch Finadir and Holuën.  Tell them it is Nimoë's time.  Then go and join your friends.  I will call you when the child is born."

He stared at her aghast.  "I cannot leave her!"

"Aaugh!" groaned Nimoë, from the cot.  "It is too much to bear.  Help me, Mother!"

Tinunél moved to Nimoë's side and bent to examine her progress.  Seeing that Legolas had not moved, but remained rooted to the spot, she ordered curtly, "Get out of here now!  I need help, and if you do not hurry, this babe will be born before the midwives can get here."

Finally understanding the seriousness of her plea, Legolas turned and ran.

"Pacing is not going to help, Legolas," muttered Gilmin, who was tiring of watching the Elf Prince cover the same two meters of floor time and again.

Legolas swung about, his face taut with worry.  "Why will they not let me stay with her, Gilmin?  She is suffering!  Even Elves can die in childbirth.  Her labor was so fast… What if something is seriously wrong?"

"If they need you, they will call.  I wouldn't worry.  Is this not the same Nimoë who single-handedly sealed Morgoth within the void?  I for one do not doubt her strength," Raven replied.

Gilmin reached out and clapped Legolas on the arm.  "You want to know why they will not let you stay?  I'll tell you a story.  When my daughter was born, I insisted on staying with my wife.  Childbirth is a painful and bloody process, Legolas.  Just as the baby was about to be born, it seems that I, hardened Dwarf warrior that I am, fainted dead away.  Watching my wife suffer so was too much for me.  I spent my daughter's first moments of life unconscious on the floor.  I have heard that often happens to fathers.  They do not want to have to worry about you as well.  Nimoë and the babe are more important just now."

Legolas was about to respond when a brisk rap came at the door.  In a moment, the Elf had crossed the floor and pulled open the door.  It was Finadir, and she was smiling.  "My Prince, your son is born."

Without pausing to speak, Legolas raced past the midwife, Gilmin and Raven on his heels.  He ran through the lanes of the city until he reached the Healing House.  There he paused, schooling himself to enter calmly, so as not to startle the baby, and he pushed open the door.

Nimoë lay propped up on a mound of pillows, her face haggard but smiling, and at her breast lay a body so tiny that Legolas could hardly comprehend it.  She looked up and smiled at him wanly, for there was little energy left in her body.  Carefully, she detached the infant, and turned it to face him, supporting the small fair head.

"Your son, my heart.  I have decided to name him Caldarion."


	32. Domestic Bliss and Longing

The next weeks were a blur for Nimoë and Legolas.  Little Caldarion proved to be quite demanding.  What time he did not spend nursing or sleeping, he wanted to be held, and not just sitting in a chair.  If he was not being walked, he screamed lustily.  On those nights when Nimoë felt that she could no longer think through her exhaustion, Legolas came to her, gently removing their tiny son from her arms.  "Sleep, love.  I can care for the baby well enough.  You will be no good to him if you drop from lack of sleep."

Seeing the little fair head rested against her husband's shoulder, sucking eagerly on his own wrinkled thumb, Nimoë smiled, then tried to stifle a yawn.  Tired as she was, she was still somewhat reluctant to leave the babe.  "What if he is hungry?  You cannot nurse him, Legolas."

He grinned wryly.  "Nay, I would hope not.  I think, however, that he will last for a few hours.  I promise to wake you, when he is truly hungry."  Still supporting little Caldarion with his right arm, Legolas reached out his left to pull Nimoë against him in a quiet embrace.  Once she was close, he pressed his lips to her brow.  "Love, Caldarion is my son, and I love him dearly, but you are still the princess of my heart.  I will not allow you to suffer more than is necessary, for his sake, or for any other."  He allowed her to pull back a short distance, but captured the curve of her cheek in his hand.  "Please, love.  Let me take care of you both."

She lowered her eyes, unable to deny the fact that only her will was keeping her upright.  "I will.  Thank you, Legolas."  She raised her hand to her brow, cataloging all she needed to tell him, then said, "His changing rags are in the chest by the door.  Blankets are in the cradle.  He likes to be walked…"

"Nimoë!" he interrupted, pointing imperiously out the door of the baby's room.  "I can handle him.  Go!"

Raising her hands in defeat, Nimoë turned and left the room, although she cast a glance back.  Legolas stood staring down in wonder at little Caldarion, and the baby was staring straight back, apparently entranced by the lights he saw shining in the Prince's eyes.

With a satisfied sigh, Nimoë walked quickly to her own bed.  After pulling the covers up to her chin, she was asleep before she had time to wonder if she could.

Caldarion was only two months old when the scouts returned from over the Mountains of Shadow.  He had learned to smile and, as long as his every wish was being met, he spent his time bestowing the cherubic grin upon every person who spoke to him.  Aside from his parents, the people he loved most to spend time with were Gilmin and Raven.  Less formal than the Elves, the Hobbit and the Dwarf were exuberant in their play, making exaggerated faces, and cooing with great vigor.

On the day that the scouts returned, Caldarion was off playing with his "uncles" by the Sea of Nurn, while Legolas and Nimoë took a much needed respite.  The two Elves walked some distance up the river that flowed down from the Mountains of Shadow, to a place where the cold water fell down abruptly in a long series of cataracts, sending white mist into the air.

Legolas and Nimoë sat comfortably together upon a well-rounded stone, watching the rushing water of the waterfalls.  Their hair; the one golden, the other moon-pale, blew in the crisp wind, mingling together caressingly.  Nimoë leaned in against Legolas' shoulder, feeling the restless strength held there.  She reached out to wrap her fingers around his, enjoying the solitude, and the chance to have time alone with her husband, away from the constant demands of Caldarion.

"Nimoë," asked Legolas, pensively, "Are you happy?"

Startled, she pulled away from him, looking up at his strong face, so dear to her.  "What do you mean?  I have you.  I have Caldarion.  What more could I need for happiness?"

He gave her a half-smile and raised one eyebrow.  "True, the love of family is all that we really _need_, but are you _happy_?"

Her hands tightened imperceptibly on his fingers, and he gently stroked them with his thumb.  "I do not wish to sound selfish…"

"Never, my love."

Her grey eyes took on a far-away look, and she sighed.  "I miss so many things, so many places.  I miss Ithilien, where I spent my youth in your shadow.  I miss Mirkwood, my first home, both in this life and the last.  And Lothlorien…  I miss Galadriel and Celeborn.

"I have grown used to this place, but there is so little of beauty, of life.  We have survived here because we must, but I wish beyond anything to go once again into the western world, to smell the pungent cedar, feel clean rain again.  It is as if there is a great wound in my heart.  I know that you feel it as well.  But it is no use to ponder these things, Legolas.  Not until we know what is happening on the other side of the Mountains."

Legolas reached out to trace the curve of her cheek, his fingers then softly caressing the full swell of her lips.  "I do feel it, Nimoë, but another longing is on me as well.  I have been to Valinor.  I have dwelt among the Valar, with Galadriel and Celeborn, and with Gandalf and Elrond.  I cannot begin to describe to you the wonders of that place.  It is as if all the air is suffused with light, radiant and alive.  The suffering of this world is but a vague memory.  Everywhere there is music, sweet and pure, like the singing of birds and the murmur of the stream.  There is a reason that those who have sailed west do not return, for what could be more important to them in this broken world?"

"Yet you came back."

"I did."  He bent down and laid a tender kiss on her upturned lips.  "I came for you."

"Oh, Legolas," she whispered, "What suffering you have endured!  Watching the world fall apart at you feet, when you could have been safe in Valinor."

His voice was fierce when he responded.  "And what would have happened to you?  If the colony in Ithilien had not existed, where would you have gone?  Or any of the others?  When I found you, alone and frightened, I knew that I had made the right choice.  The only choice.  If you had died again because of my own selfishness, I could not have borne it.  I did all that I could to make a safe haven for you, yet in the end it was you who saved me.  Who saved all of us."

"Nimoë," he paused, "I want to return across the sea.  I want to take you and little Caldarion.  The others as well.  I want to live again in that peace and freedom, without fear, where we can spend our days rejoicing in love and beauty.  Will you come with me?  If we find a way, will you come to Valinor?"

Leaning in close, she pulled his head down to hers, cloud-filled eyes never leaving his own.  In answer, she placed her lips on his, allowing the longing of her body to speak for her.  When she finally pulled away, flushed and breathing heavily, she replied, "You need never ask.  I will follow wherever you lead me.  Did I not willingly go to Orodruin?  How much more would I rather journey to our destined home!  Find a way and I will go with you.  All I ask is that if there is a way, I would dearly love to visit again my homelands before I leave the eastern lands."

"Anything, Nimoë," he whispered breathlessly, drowning in her intoxicating eyes, in the innocent trust she gave to him.  "I will find a way…"  And then there was no more speech, only the language of heated kisses and touch as tender as breath.


	33. Of the Courts of Men

The two Elves lay entwined in each other's arms.  Nimoë slept, but Legolas stared up into the sky, thinking about his promise.  With his fingers he stroked her hair, enjoying the soft feel of it.  Abruptly he stilled his motion.  Someone was coming.

Carefully pulling his arm out from under Nimoë's head he reached out with his other hand to grab his sword, which was lying close at hand.  Even so close to Núrnelven, he did not discount the possibility of roving minions of the Shadow.  Moving silently, he rose to his feet, taking a defensive position over Nimoë's sleeping form.

There was a rustle in the underbrush and the approaching creature loomed into view.  Legolas let his breath out in a rush and hailed him, "Telarion!  You are back!"

The young Elf looked up, startled, for no sound had alerted him to the presence of others.  "Indeed, Legolas.  I am back, and I bring you good news."

The Elf Prince beckoned to the scout, gesturing to a nearby stone, and dropped his sword back down on the mossy ground.  "Sit.  Tell me your news."

Telarion moved gracefully over the distance between them and settled onto the moss-covered rock, near to the edge of the river.  "I have been to Ithilien, Legolas.  I have seen the ruins of our homes.  Already new life grows through the ravages of the fire.  New shoots have grown to young trees and birds fly overhead."

"I traveled with Eredir and Gil-Ganan and together we journeyed to Minas Ithil.  We disguised ourselves well, hiding our Elven features, but even as we trod the roads of Men we found things had begun to change.  Rather than sullen looks and wary greetings we were met with smiles and welcome.  Men did not carry their swords to hand, but kept them sheathed and belted.  So very different it seemed from when we had left.  Indeed the very appearance of the Men we met had changed.  No longer ragged and scruffy, they were clean and nearly trimmed.  We took heart.

"Upon reaching Minas Ithil we went to the court of the Prince, Eomiren by name, and there did we reveal ourselves for what we truly are, having deemed it safe enough.  Still, we were none of us prepared for what happened then."

Telarion paused in his telling and looked over at his Prince with a smile of memory.  "Prince Eomiren saw our features and he blanched an ashen white.  In front of his entire court did he fall to his knees before us, hands extended in supplication.  "I had thought that we had wiped all of your kind from this world!  Oh the tortures I have suffered thinking that I had condoned such an atrocity.  It is as if a fog had covered my eyes, my heart, my very soul, which is now lifted.  When I think of all that your people did for us, for my ancestors…  What can I do to begin to repay what we have wrought upon you?""

"I can tell you truly, that was not the reaction that we were expecting.  However, I told him that we were but emissaries from you.  That any decisions would be made by our Prince.  Eredir and Gil-Ganan remained behind to fully tell the tale of what happened at Orodruin, and to prepare for your arrival, for we knew that you must travel to Minas Ithil yourself, to take counsel with Eomiren."

A quiet voice spoke then, from the softly mossed ground nearby. "Legolas, it was enough!  Men have been redeemed!"

"Nimoë, I thought you were sleeping?" said Legolas.

She pulled herself into a sitting position.  "I was, but your voices roused me.  Telarion, this is good news indeed!"

Legolas rose to his feet and crossed to Nimoë, assisting her to stand.  "Aye, it is.  We must quickly return to Núrnelven to spread the word."

"Yes.  And Caldarion will be missing me."

"Caldarion?!" gasped the young Elf scout.  "He is back?"

"Oh, Telarion," replied Nimoë, regret in her voice.  "I am sorry.  I should have told you first.  I named our son in honor of your brother.  That is whom I speak of."

For a moment, Telarion's features fell, but then he shook himself and smiled.  "What greater honor could you bestow?  If he is not here in the flesh, then that is the most that I could ask for."

Legolas gripped the younger Elf by the shoulder, then said, "Come.  Let us return."

Before going to find the council of Elves that had been left in command of the city when Legolas had been gone to Orodruin to tell them Telarion's news, they first went to find the Dwarf, Hobbit and baby.  They found them at the shore of the Sea, Caldarion held snugly in Gilmin's arms, giggling helplessly as Raven popped his head out from behind the Dwarf, exaggerated expressions of surprise on his face.

Gilmin saw the trio approaching and hailed them.  "Good thing you are here, Nimoë.  This child has been begging for food."

She came over and took the little bundle into her arms, then turned to introduce him to his namesake's brother.  "Here, Little One, is Telarion.  It was his brother who gave you his name.  You must be friendly to him, for his sacrifice was great."

Telarion held out his index finger towards the infant who reached to grab it.  With strength surprising in such a small creature, Caldarion pulled the finger to his mouth and began to gum it with gusto.

Looking down at the small fair head, smiling beatifically as he chewed on his dusty finger, Telarion felt tears rise unbidden to his eyes.  His voice was strained with emotion as he said, "He is lovely."  Trying to hide his sentiment with humor, he muttered, "Has good taste."

"Would you like to hold him?" asked Nimoë.

Telarion stared at her, with his jaw hanging open.  Before he could formulate a word, she had moved the baby onto his shoulder, and the chubby little fists were wrapped in his long, dark hair.

Legolas laughed.  "Come, Telarion.  Let us find the council.  The good news must be spread."

The dark-haired scout followed along behind the others, unable to pull his eyes from the tiny bundle in his arms.

Author's Note:  Sorry.  Short chapter, I know, but the next should be longer.  I'm trying to keep up with all my active stories, and I am getting a bit behind.


	34. Up the Mountains of Shadow

The journey over the Mountains of Shadow was easier than it had been so many years past when the Elves had fled from the massacre wrought on them in Ithilien.  This time they carried water, food, and other necessities with them, and while the way was treacherous, the promise of what awaited them on the western slopes drove them forward with eager feet.

Nimoë carried Caldarion in a sling that wrapped over her shoulder and held him tight to her hip.  He complained lustily, for he was eager to test his knees, which he had recently discovered as a means of locomotion.  Nimoë, however, would not set him down, for fear that he would crawl off of a cliff.  Indeed, there were cliffs to scale, and at those times, Legolas took the child firmly from his mother.  He feared that the squirming infant would jar Nimoë at a dangerous time, possibly sending them both falling.  The mere thought of such a thing sent shivers shuddering down his spine.

Every Elf had chosen to make the journey.  Although they had lived long years in Núrnelven, none of them had any desire to stay in that desolate place.  Indeed, every Elf said that, while they would visit Ithilien, and possibly their previous homes, what they wanted most was to sail into the West.  What they could not bear to part with, they carried on their backs, and everything else had been left behind, with little sorrow.

As Nimoë climbed to the heights of the Mountains of Shadow, clambering over sharp outcroppings and splintered stone, she thought back on her memories of Ithilien.  Although it had been a happy place, there had always been the threat of violence.  Indeed, there was no place in her memory that was free from such a threat.  With all her heart she longed for a respite.  Perhaps, just perhaps, that was what she would find when they left the shores of Middle Earth and sailed West.

A hush came over those Elves in the lead and Nimoë looked up to see what was happening.  They had reached the pinnacle and the Elves looked down at what had once been their home.  A sound of soft weeping reached Nimoë's ears, and she steeled herself for what was coming.

With a few more minutes of effort, she joined the group at the crest of the peaks.  Ithilien lay spread beneath her, blackened stumps dotting the earth like a pox.  Her heart caught in her throat and her arm tightened about her son, holding him close to reassure herself that he was still there.

There was a shuffle of feet to her left and then Legolas was at her side, pulling her close against him, whispering, "It is an ill thing to set eyes upon, but can you see the new growth already taking hold?  This land will recover, as we will."

"But, my father…"

Before she could finish the thought, the memory of his smiling face and shining eyes swept over her with such force that she was overwhelmed.  It had been years since she had truly faced the reality of his death, but with the killing fields spread out before her, the horror he must have faced came racing back, stealing her breath.

Nimoë closed her eyes to shut out the vision, turned and burrowed her face into Legolas' chest.  For a moment they remained so, taking comfort from each other, then Caldarion began to feel neglected, so he grabbed a handful of Nimoë's hair and yanked hard upon it.  With a yelp, she turned to defend herself, detaching the chubby little fists, and allowing rueful laughter to pierce through the haze of tears that had formed in her eyes.

"Little One," said Legolas, with a stern tone, "If you injure your mother, you will answer to me."

"Legolas, he is only a baby!  He knows not what he does."

"I know it," he replied, smiling down at her, "but he must learn quickly.  I won't allow any harm to come to you."

"I believe I can defend myself from an infant, dear heart."

Chastised, Legolas leaned forward to place a kiss on her upturned lips, and ruffle Caldarion's tousled hair.  "Forgive me.  I am afraid that I am less than rational when it comes to you."

"And I love you the more dearly for it."  She glanced about her and saw that the last stragglers were arriving.  Raven and Gilmin stood with Tinunél on the far outskirts of the company and the Dwarf rested his hand comfortingly on the Elf Healer's arm while silent tears rolled down her face.  Nimoë drew in a shaking breath.  "Mother.  I must go, Legolas.  How she must suffer."

The Elf Prince squeezed her arm, then turned to see to the rest of the company.  Nimoë stepped cautiously over the uneven ground, moving between the milling bodies of her friends and companions.  As she drew near, Gilmin saw her approaching and stepped back from Tinunél, saying, "Here is one who can comfort you better than I."

Nimoë stepped to her mother's side, wrapping her free arm about her, "I miss him, too, Mother, but he would not want us to grieve overmuch."

Tinunél's voice came out tight with restrained sobs, "He was my life, Nimoë.  I had been able to hide that part of my life away, but now…"  She turned to face the pale-haired woman who had been as a daughter to her, "You are my reason to go on, child.  You and your son.  Without you, I would have soon joined Hanadir in the Halls of Mandos.  Even now I feel the ice of loss creeping through my veins."

"Mother, you mustn't say such things," Nimoë pleaded.  "It frightens me.  I have already lost two mothers and three fathers.  Please, please don't make me lose another."

Before Tinunél could respond, Caldarion reached his small arms out towards her and very clearly said, "Gama!"

The two women stared at each other, mouths open in surprise.  "Caldarion, did you say Grandma?" asked Nimoë, her voice soft with awe.

"Gama!"

"My name," murmured Tinunél.  "His first word is my name…"  Color flushed through her ashen cheeks, pulsing pink and rose.  A sparkle flashed in her eyes and she reached out to pull the boy from the sling.  "Yes, love.  I am your grandma."  She looked up at Nimoë then, addressing the two together.  "I will never leave you."

The company rested for half of an hour, allowing them time to experience their emotions fully before pressing onward, for all had lost loved ones and friends in the flight from Ithilien.  The descent would be treacherous, and it would not do to be distracted.  Many of the Elves carried ropes with them, and before moving down the steep decline, every person was tied together, in twenty small groups.

Legolas approached Nimoë, to take Caldarion under his wing, but she refused.  "I would feel safer holding him myself, and you on the rope above us.  He cannot get out of the sling, I promise, and if anything were to go wrong, I know that you would not let us fall."

Seeing the logic in her reasoning, Legolas agreed, tying himself to the head of the rope, with Nimoë just below.  Tinunél and Raven went ahead on the same rope, while Gilmin headed another.  When all were tied together for safety, the strongest and most skilled at the head of each rope, Legolas called out in a voice strong enough to be heard by all, "This is a dangerous pass.  Move with caution, and not until told to by the person above you.  With luck, we will reach Ithilien before nightfall, but I would rather spend another night on the mountain than risk injury to any, so do not hasten.  Good luck to you all!"

With that, the twenty sets of Elves began their slow, perilous descent.

Author's Note:  It has been forever.  I apologize. I have been going nuts.  Some of you might remember that I had made an audition tape for two local competitions.  I have already completed one of those competitions and I tied for second, which is quite a good result, and I just received word from the more prestigious competition that I am a finalist.  That is better than I ever expected.  So I have to have a 35 minute recital prepared, by memory, by the middle of June.  Needless to say, this may continue to keep me a little bit slow, but hopefully not so slow as I have been.  I must admit to having been feeling a little overwhelmed.  I have been trying so hard to improve as a writer that I checked out a bunch of books on how to write, and I through reading them, I was getting paranoid that I was not writing well enough.  So it has taken me a while to get my nerve back together and just write, darn it, whether it is publishable material or not :-D  Please forgive me for my insecurities.  I just want to do the best that I can.  More will be forthcoming!


	35. The Burdens of a Prince

Legolas breathed a sigh of relief as Nimoë's feet reached the firm earth of Ithilien.  She turned and smiled up at him, her face shadowed in the half-light of dusk.  He returned the smile, then gave his attention to descending the last pitch of the climb.  Legolas had taken his group down last, to make certain that all arrived safely.

With a few deft maneuvers, he passed the last tricky pitch, then scrambled the last few meters to the ground.  As his feet touched, a great shout went up from the assembled Elves.  Every one of them had made the climb.  Every Elf had returned safely to the bosom of the land that had once been theirs.  Legolas smiled, then turned to pull Nimoë to him and give her a kiss.  Caldarion was sleeping, so he did not bother the babe.

"It is too late for us to continue on this night," he called to the assembled Elves.  "So let us make our camp here, and in the morning we will travel on to Minas Ithil.  Rest well, for I think that the morrow will be a long and difficult day."

It took less than half an hour for the camp to spring to life, and earth-colored tents dotted the ground, looking like natural mounds in the darkness.  Legolas handed his pack in to Nimoë, then told her he would be back.  Although he was happy to be back on the westerns side of the mountains, his heart was not at rest.

With silent tread, he left the encampment, heading west.  He did not know how long he walked, but the moon was high in the sky by the time he came to a stop.  Even among the burned out hulks of the trees, naked and charred, with no trace left of the city which had once thrived there, he recognized the place.  It was here that his Colony had stood, alight with hope and joy, where he had watched Nimoë grow into a beautiful young woman.  Here, where new growth was only just beginning to show its face in the shoots of grass that peeked from the ash enriched earth.

He dropped down and rocked back on his heels, reaching out his hand to run his fingers through the dirt.  So much had been lost.  So many friends.  Surely, though, they had chosen to remain in the Halls of Mandos.  Surely they would have known better than to chose reincarnation into such a world as the one they had left behind.

Legolas felt his chest constrict, a sharp tightening in his throat.  Instinctively he reached to pull back the tears of regret that threatened to spill down his cheeks, but when he realized that he was at last alone, he dropped his face down into his hands, heedless of the dirt which smudged him, and let the tears come, silent and slow.

A snapping sound pulled his head up and he rose to his feet, spinning around.  "Who is there?"

From behind a burned crag, stepped a slight figure, the moonlight bathing her face showing him the visage of Nimoë.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to startle you."

Legolas turned away, hoping to hide the flame that burst onto his cheeks at having been found in such a position of weakness.

"Legolas, it's alright to cry."  Her voice was nearer, light and without judgment.

"I cannot.  If I were to be seen ..."

He felt her small hand against the small of his back.  "It is only me, love.  How many times have you seen me cry?" she asked with a self-deprecating laugh.

"But the Elves are not your responsibility.  They are mine.  It is up to me to keep us together.  To keep our spirits high.  They are happy now, and well they should be.  We are out of Mordor, which place should be anathema to Elves for all eternity.  But when I see this place," he gestured about him, "it makes me realize how badly I failed.  If only I'd better guessed what was coming!  Perhaps things would have been different.  Perhaps more would have lived.  You would not have lost your father ..."  The words were coming fast now, as fast as a summer torrent, and as he spoke, the tears again began to stream from his eyes.  "Nimoë, it's all my fault!  I failed in my duty--"

Legolas was brought up short as Nimoë pulled hard on his arm, spinning him around to face her.  "Hush!" she chastised.  "You did more than anyone could ever have asked.  If it hadn't been for you, how many of us here now would have survived, do you think?  I'll wager a very small number.  You've been our rock, our deep-rooted tree.  Yet even a tree sheds its leaves.  Cry if you must, but let it be a cleansing, and come out stronger than you began."  She took his tear-stained, muddied face between her hands and stared deep into his eyes, then whispered, "_I love you."_

Faced with such loyalty and unswerving affection, Legolas closed his eyes and dropped down to his knees, overwhelmed by loss, guilt, hope, and most of all, love.  Nimoë gathered her sobbing husband's head to her belly and held him close, softly stroking his fair head in soothing rhythm.  After many minutes, Legolas felt the onslaught of tears abate.  He moved to pull away, to hide his face, but Nimoë pulled him up in front of her.  "Never be ashamed with me, Legolas.  I've loved you for two lifetimes, and not just the hero, but the man as well."

He gave a final shudder, then pulled her close against him.  A thought struck him and he asked, "Where is Caldarion?"

"With my mother.  He's fine.  But we should get back.  The night passes swiftly, and the morrow will indeed be a long day."

Hand in hand, they turned back towards the east, following their keen sense of direction to find the encampment.  They walked in silence for many minutes, but then Nimoë broke it, asking, "Do you think that it's all changed so?"

"Pardon?"

"Middle-Earth.  Do you think that all of our old homes have changed so?"

Legolas paused only a moment before responding, "Even if they've not been burned, I believe that there has been a fundamental change.  This is no longer a place for Elves."

Nimoë gave a sigh, then said, "I've decided that I no longer wish to visit Lothlorien and Mirkwood.  I want them to remain pure in my memories; uncorrupted.  Will you take me with you to Valinor straightway?  There we can start our lives one last time.  Safe.  Unafraid.  That is my deepest wish."

Legolas smiled, although with his back to the moonlight, Nimoë could not see it.  "Your wish is my command, my lady."


	36. Minas Ithil

Dawn broke over the tower of Minas Ithil, sending ribbons of scarlet and pink over the city.  The line of Elves moved steadily up the slope, staring at the buildings with no small bit of awe.  It had been many long years since they had laid eyes on the monumental masonry of Men.

A high stone wall surrounded the city, and colorful banners flapped in the breeze, while long streaming ribbons were waved by the Men who lined the defensive wall.  Nimoë smiled.  This was the way she remembered Men from before.  The valiant soldiers of Gondor, the citizens of Minas Tirith, as they welcomed the victors.  Hope rose in her breast that she would leave Middle-Earth in the hands of Men worthy to sustain it.

As the Elves of Ithilien passed into the shadow cast by the wall, a fanfare of trumpets blew, crisp and clear in the autumn breeze, and the vast gates were swung open.  Telarion, who walked beside the Prince and his wife, whispered, "It seems that Eomiren truly does wish to make amends to us, Legolas.  This is the best way that he knows how.  He gives us a royal welcome to his city."

Legolas looked up at the colorful display and nodded.  "I would rather have the welcome of friends and allies, but all that has passed between our peoples make that impossible.  I look forward to meeting this Eomiren.  We have much to say to each other."

"I think that you will find him to be a worthy man, Legolas.  Believe me, I was ready to hate when I came here last, but I found the world greatly changed, and the Prince of Ithilien perhaps most of all."

They had passed beneath the portal into Minas Ithil, and now the entirety of the city lay open to view.  It was akin to Minas Tirith, in its age and construction, although the slope of the city was gentle, where Minas Tirith perched on the sharp side of a mountain.  Straight ahead of them rose the Tower, piercing through the rising sun.

An honor guard of Men dressed in shining armor approached them and dropped to their knees in front of the Elves, while their leader appraised them, then asked, "Which of you is Prince Legolas?"

Nimoë felt pride swell in her as her husband stepped forward, his bearing that of royalty, back straight, head held high.  Among the Elves, he had been content to be one of many, but when placed in the role of ambassador and Prince, he fell easily into the persona.  "I am Legolas."

The captain bowed from the waist, saying, "Forgive me, Highness, but your people are travel-worn and weary, and I could not tell you apart."

"We have suffered much and traveled far.  We have no possessions to signal our positions.  Neither would you, had you been driven from your homes and forced to live in exile in the realm of Mordor."

The captain flushed scarlet.  "I didn't mean…  Forgive me, Highness."

"My name is Legolas, and I would be addressed as such."  He reached behind him and beckoned Nimoë forward.  As she took her place at his side, he laid his hand on the small of her back.  "This is Nimoë, my wife.  It is to her that you owe your salvation, for it is she who defeated Morgoth."

There was a rush of murmurs round about them and Nimoë pulled closer to Legolas.  She had never been one to enjoy notoriety, preferring to remain in the background, allowing others to bask in the harsh warmth of fame.  She raised her hand to forestall their words.  "Please, do not speak of it.  I did what I had to do.  I do not ask for gratitude."

The captain of the honor guard rose, motioning his soldiers to follow.  "You do not ask it, but it is freely given.  Please, won't you all follow us, and we will bring you to meet with Prince Eomiren.  He is awaiting you."

Nimoë, Legolas, and the rest of the band of Elves, along with the Dwarf and Hobbit, followed the gleaming band of soldiers towards the base of the Tower of Minas Ithil.  She could still feel eyes upon her, and she ducked her head, watching the cobblestones pass beneath her feet, rather than acknowledge the stares of the curious Men.

At last, they passed into the fastness of stone, and were hidden from prying eyes, although shouts still rose up from below.  The Tower was lit with torches, and they followed the hallway through to the center, where a large open room stood, firelight casting dancing shadows across every face.  A throne sat atop a wooden dais, and the man who sat there rose as they entered, and dropped to his knees, bowing his head.

"Prince Legolas.  Elves of Ithilien.  It is with abject humility that I welcome you to my city.  I know that you have suffered greatly at the hands of my people, and for this I cannot ask pardon.  This ill that was done was too horrible for forgiveness.  I can only ask for understanding.  What was done was wrought by a power greater than my own.  Greater than any of us."  Prince Eomiren raised his face, and Nimoë saw a tear roll down his cheek.  "What can I do to help make amends?"

Eomiren was a tall man, with broad shoulders, and long golden hair.  Indeed, very closely did he resemble his ancestor of old, Eomer, King of Rohan.  Eomer's sister, Eowyn, was the first Princess of Ithilien, wed to Faramir of Minas Tirith, and Nimoë could see the remnants of power those three had worn like a mantle still upon this one man, although generations separated them.

Legolas stepped forward, the firelight making his hair glow with orange light, and Nimoë went with him, as he did not release her.  "We have suffered much in this realm, Eomiren, that much is true.  All of us here before you lost loved ones when your people drove us from Ithilien.  We have no cause to love you.  Yet, we will grant you pardon, and forgiveness.  The power of Morgoth is something greater perhaps than even you know.  I witnessed it with my own eyes.  Watched as he possessed my beloved wife, yearning to use her body to bring himself forth again into this world."

Eomiren's eyes widened, for Eredir and Gil-Ganan had spoken no word of this part of the tale to the Prince of Ithilien.

"It was her bravery and strength that sealed the entrance to the Void for all eternity.  You need not fear for Morgoth's return."

The tall Prince of Men stepped down from his dais and crossed to Nimoë, taking her slender hands in his own.  "Then you are our deliverer.  How can I ever thank you?  What can I give you that could even begin to mirror what you have given to us?"

Nimoë dropped her eyes, suddenly shy, but Legolas squeezed her gently, and she raised her gaze to meet that of Eomiren.  "We ask but one thing, Highness.  Our people long to only to cross the great western sea and pass into Valinor, the ancient home of our race.  Give us a place to stay, while we build a vessel to carry us forth.  Give us supplies and aid.  Speed us on our way, and we will consider the debt paid."

"It is such a little thing, Lady.  Surely you would ask more.  Gold?  Jewels?"

Legolas replied, "My wife has asked for the thing most precious to our hearts.  We need nothing more."

Eomiren retreated a step and looked around at the faces of the Elves staring back at him.  He nodded.  "So be it.  Rest here for a few days to recover from your journey, and then you will be taken to Emyn Arnen, nigh unto the Anduin, where a great sailing vessel will be constructed.  You are our honored guests, my friends.  We will see to your every need."

A high wail rose from behind Nimoë, and she smiled.  Caldarion was awake.  "I'm afraid that I must see to that need.  Please excuse me."  With that she turned and found her way to Tinunél's side, where she took back her son.  Legolas and Eomiren remained in conversation, but Nimoë felt no need to hear it.  Soon enough, they would depart Middle-Earth, and she would be reunited with those who had left before her.  She longed to see her first birth parents, and Gandalf.

Caldarion burrowed his face against her shoulder, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, and she smiled.  Soon, son.  Soon you will be safe in a world of everlasting light.


	37. Shipbuilding and Fear

Nimoë looked out of her window towards the shipyard.  Elves and Men swarmed over the skeleton of the ship that would carry the Elves to Valinor.  The work had been in progress for three months, and Caldarion was walking.  Every day, as he lost the chubbiness of baby fat, he looked more and more like his father.  The defined jaw, the dawn-blue eyes, the seriousness of his nature.

"Nimi, boat!"

Nimoë felt the sharp tug at her skirt and smiled down at her son.  "Yes, Caldarion.  We'll go see the boat."  She turned away from the window and pulled a small tunic from a chest of drawers and dropped it over his head, tying it at the waist with a short cord.  "There.  Let's find your father, shall we?"

"Legas!"

She offered the toddler her finger and he wrapped his surprisingly long fingers around them, then they left the house which would be their last home in Middle-Earth.  The sun was warm on her skin, but the air was chill and the trees were just shedding their last bronzed leaves.  She smiled.  They would be able to leave before spring came back into the world.

The streets were full, but the Men of Ithilien made space to allow the Elf maid and her son to pass by.  All knew the story of her heroism, and they accorded her every respect, although they'd learned quickly that she preferred anonymity, so what they did was done with quiet dignity rather than with effusive words.

"Legas!  Legas!"

"Yes, dear heart.  He'll be there."  He was always there, supervising the work, lending a hand where needed.  Of all of them, he was the only one who had done such work before.  The days of Círdan the Shipwright were past.  When Legolas had built the ship that carried himself and Gimli into the West, he became the last Elf to undertake such work for centuries.

Nimoë smiled forlornly.  It seemed she hardly saw him anymore.  The construction of the ship was like a fever in his blood, and he pursued its completion with a single-mindedness that found both reassuring and disturbing.  Reassuring in that the sooner the work was completed, then sooner they could leave, but disturbing in that it seemed it was something more that drove him on.  He had not relaxed in the world of Men.  It seemed that he was always looking over his shoulder, and although he did not carry his bow with him, he was never without his Elven blades, and he insisted that Nimoë carry her mother's knife with her at all times.

She'd tried to reason with him.  What was he expecting?  By all signs, the Men of Ithilien were giving them all aid.  She'd seen no sign of treachery.  Indeed, they went out of their way to aid the Elves, many coming to work on the ship after their own work was completed for the day.

Nimoë sighed.

"Nimi?"

Caldarion was a perceptive little thing.  He knew when she was upset.  "It's nothing, love.  We'll go find your father, and then we can take a little hike.  What do you think of that?"

He nodded, and squeezed her finger with his small hand.

Minutes later they came upon the shipyard.

Gil-Ganan was sitting astride a long beam, and he hailed her.  "Good morning to you, Nimoë!  You'll find Legolas in the stern!"

She called her thanks and pulled Caldarion closer to her as she led the way into the skeletal ship.  It really was no place for a child.  Debris littered the ground, and pieces of wood were occasionally dropped, making anyone below a moving target.  "Stay near."

They picked their way across the uneven ground and the climbed the stairs to the partially completed deck.  Legolas stood deep in conversation with Telarion, gesturing with his hands, apparently trying to convey some trick of joining curved beams so they would remain watertight.  Nimoë felt the familiar acceleration of her pulse at the sight of him.  The catch in her throat that made it feel like she couldn't breathe.  She was lucky, she knew, that her husband still made her heart race, that there had been no lessening of the passion between them.  So many found that time dulled the edge of their love, but for Nimoë it only made the blade more keen.

Legolas turned his head slightly and caught sight of her.  He motioned Telarion to wait and strode quickly to her side, taking Caldarion up in his arms and leaning in to kiss Nimoë on her brow.  "So you have come to see me!  Look at how the ship progresses, Caldarion.  See there, do you remember that yesterday there was no floor?"

The boy nodded, his eyes wide.

"Soon enough we will be able to depart from this place, and you and your mother will finally be safe."  Although he spoke those words to the child his eyes were on Nimoë.  "What will you be doing today?"

"I thought to take Caldarion for a walk into the hills.  He's been cooped up in the house too much.  He needs to stretch his legs.  To breathe of the forest.  He'll begin to think he is a Man and not an Elf."

"Darion Elf!"

Legolas smiled and ruffled his son's blonde head.  "You are indeed, and do not forget it.  You come from a brave lineage."  He looked back to Nimoë.  "Will you not wait until I can join you?  I like not the idea of the two of you out alone."

"Legolas, there is nothing to be afraid of.  I do not understand your concern.  And even if we should run into some sort of trouble, I have my knife, and I am not without other skills.  Rest your mind.  We are fine."  
A voice called from high up on the mast, where they were attaching the spars, "Legolas!  We need your help!"

Regretfully, he handed Caldarion back to Nimoë, and waved an acknowledgement.  "Do what you will then, Nimoë.  I know that it is no use my trying to stop you, but keep your wits about you.  I sense that all is not as it should be."

Nimoë leaned in and kissed him full on the lips.  His eyes widened, then fell closed, and he reached his arm around her waist, pulling her in closer, losing himself in the kiss, then firmly drew away.  She smiled.  "I love you, Legolas."

"And I love you.  Please, don't do anything rash."

"Go," she gestured to the Elves above.  "They need you more than I.  We'll be back by nightfall."

"Bye, Legas!"

"Goodbye."

Several hours later, Nimoë and Caldarion were seated by the side of a swift-running stream, munching on cheese and rolls that Nimoë had brought with them.  It had taken some time to get as far from the city as they'd come, as Caldarion could not walk quickly, but Nimoë had not pressed him.  The expressions of wonder and joy that crossed his face at the few birds that flew by overhead, the frost still clinging to the earth in the shady places, brought a smile to her face, and she would not hurry him through this time of discovery.

"Go up?"

Nimoë glanced up at the hill that rose above them.  The trees grew denser there, and the whole ground was swathed in shadows.  "Are you sure you want to go?  It will be colder there."

"Go up!"

She sighed, and gathered up the last of their meal and dropped it into the pockets of the apron she'd brought to serve as a blanket.  "Give me your hand then, and don't stray."

They crossed into the shadowy brush and began the hike up the hill.  Something about the place didn't feel right to Nimoë, but she shook her head to dispel the feeling.  Nature had never been against them.  It was only that the pall of winter death was upon the ground.  Nothing more.

They climbed in silence, and Caldarion looked as if he wanted to stick his thumb in his mouth to suck, but stopped himself.  He was a big boy now, and thumb-sucking was beneath his dignity.

As the trees closed around them, Nimoë felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and she glanced about, eyes searching for anything that might be out of place.  Although she saw nothing, she reached down and pulled Caldarion into her arms.  "I am sorry, love, but I think we should not climb this hill.  We'll find another."

Her voice sounded hollow in the dim light, and Caldarion did not protest, clinging to her neck.  Nimoë was not reassured.  He could feel it too.

She had not taken three steps down the hill when a heavy weight crashed down upon her sending her sprawling to the ground.  She managed to roll, thereby sparing her son from being crushed beneath her, but before she could gain her feet, hands were grabbing her roughly, tearing Caldarion from her arms, shoving a gag into her mouth.

She tried to scream, to lash out, but was dragged to her feet, her hands bound tightly behind her back.  Still, she kicked and struggled, Caldarion's screams giving her strength.  One of her attackers fell to the earth, clutching at his groin, and others cursed loudly as her feet bruised their legs.

"_Nimi!_"

Nimoë flung her body hard against the Men who struggled to subdue her, and managed to knock the captor on her left side free.  In desperation, she pulled hard to the left, dragging the two Men on her right arm after her, but as she passed the one she'd felled, he grabbed her around the ankles, and she crashed hard to the ground.

Two of her attackers piled on top of her, pressing her face into the stony earth and tears seeped from the corners of her eyes.  _Legolas!  Elbereth, aid me.  I should have listened.  Caldarion, what are they doing to you.  Why have you stopped screaming?  Caldarion!!_


	38. A Mysterious Message

The blue veil of night was descending over Ithilien, and Legolas stood alone at the base of the mast of his ship.  It had been a long day, but a productive one.  The deck was nearly complete.  All the others had left for their lodgings, but he wanted to check up on all that had been done before returning home.  Home!  The bright world that was Valinor called out to him from behind the curtains of memory, and he longed for it with every fiber of his body.  Leaving had been difficult, but he knew that if he remained there without Nimoë, he would never truly have peace, as his mind would dwell forever upon the shores of Middle Earth.

Now, though.  Now his Nimoë was with him, and their son, and he ached to bring them to the destined home of their people.  He smiled as he imagined the look on Nimoë's face when she looked upon the beauty and wonder of the Undying Lands, when she heard the music that fluttered like birdsong upon the very air.  He smiled.  For that one thing, all the suffering and hardship had been worthwhile.  Not for the Men of Middle Earth, not even for the remaining Elves, would he have left Valinor.  Only for her.

Starlight sparkled above, and Legolas raised his face to feel the soft glow upon his cheeks.  He closed his eyes.  So like her touch, were the starlight and moonlight.  Soft, reassuring, a light in dark places.  He felt the corners of his lips curl up.  No need to linger.  Nimoë would be waiting.

He turned away from the mast, and leapt back in shock as a missile shot past his face, burrowing deep into the sturdy wood of the mast.  Battle-trained reflexes sent him into a crouch, beneath the level of the ship's railings, and he reached for his bow that wasn't there.  He cursed silently.  When no other arrow followed the first, he rose slowly, his keen eyes searching for any sign of who had fired, but nothing moved in the darkness.

A slight fluttering caught his eye, and he reached for the arrow.  A message had been wrapped around the shaft.  He tore the arrow from the mast and unwrapped the message with trembling fingers.  Nothing good could come from missives delivered in such a fashion.

His eyes scanned the note and his face went pale, then white.  He crumpled the message into his fist and ran for the stairs, pulse pounding in his ears.  It couldn't be!

Gilmin took a long pull on his pipe and regarded the remains of his dinner.  "A fine meal, Raven, but I find the taste grows dull with overuse.  Long have I been away from the halls of my people.  There the meat has a special robustness, and the ale is strong."

Raven leaned back in his chair, and his dark eyes held a faraway look.  "It is true that we have been long away from your mountain, but longer still have my folk been parted from the Shire.  Prince Eomiren has promised to seek a writ from the King of Gondor restoring to us what was once ours.  I can scarce recall what it was like to dwell in the comfort of a good hole, with jolly countrymen about me."

"Soon, my friend.  Soon we will be on our way.  Do you regret your choice?"

"To remain until the Elves have departed?  Nay.  This is no simple leave-taking, where we may meet again in a few years' time.  Our friends leave us forever.  I would spend what time with them I may."

Gilmin nodded and pulled again at his pipe.  The room was comfortably lit with tall tapers, and smoke curled lazily around the ceiling.  The Dwarf and Hobbit lapsed into peaceful silence.

Abruptly, the door slammed open.  Rave, who had been leaning well back in his chair, toppled, and Gilmin leapt to his feet, reaching for his belt axe.

When he saw who had burst in upon them, he cried, "Legolas?"

The Elf prince brandished a crumpled piece of parchment in front of him and his eyes shone wild.  "They've taken them.  My wife and my son!  They've taken them!"

Raven, who had righted his chair grabbed the parchment and read it aloud.  "They have taken your Lady, Prince of Elves, and your child.  I saw this happen with my own eyes.  The She-Elf has been bound and gagged, and the boy was unconscious when they passed from my sight.  Men, fell men, they were, ragged and tattered, and I head them speak in a tongue like unto the common speech, but twisted and foul.  I know not where they were taken, but I hear them speak of the 'Elf-Witch.'  I fear they will seek to bend her to their will."

"Who sent this?" Gilmin asked.

"There was no name," Legolas replied.  "It was shot within a handsbreadth of my head.  I have been to our home.  They are not there, and they were not with Tinunél.  I fear this is truth."  He gestured towards the parchment.  "I fear this is truth."

"What do you know?" Raven asked.  "Where were they going?"

"To the forest.  Nimoë wanted Darion to smell the trees…"

"Legolas," said Gilmin, "I will not insult you by saying they are fine.  But Nimoë is resourceful, and she is built of sterner stuff than the stone.  She will be ready if they give her an opening."

Legolas shook his head, and his eyes held a faraway look.  "It has happened before.  During the War of the Ring.  She was gagged and held captive in Rohan.  She nearly lost her mind."  He fixed the Dwarf with his piercing blue eyes.  "We must find them quickly."

"Gather the Elves, and we will ask Eomiren for aid."

"No, Raven.  There is no time."

Gilmin said,  "You know that we will aid you, but where can begin to look?  The forest is no small place."

Legolas pulled a broken arrow out of his quiver, and held it in front of the Dwarf and the Hobbit.  "There was no name upon this parchment, but the arrow itself bore a clue.  See this leaf that has been pierced through?  This tree grows only in a small area.  I believe it is a clue.  We will search there first."

Raven looked at him skeptically.  "Could it not also be a trap?"

Legolas nodded, but already had his hand to the door.  "I will take that risk."

The Dwarf and the Hobbit checked their weaponry then joined him.  "We are with you," Gilmin swore, clasping the Elf's forearm.

Legolas returned the grasp, and laid his other hand on Raven's shoulder.  "I knew I could count on you.  Come."


	39. Captured

Nimoë staggered along behind her captors.  They had tied a rope around her neck and any time she lagged behind, the Man holding the end of the rope gave a hard yank.  Her body bruised, unable to breathe fully around the gag, Nimoë struggled to keep her feet, and her head.  She could easily have escaped into that place of nothingness that beckoned to her.  She remembered it well, from her captivity in Rohan.  Aside from the pain, she had found solace in the memory of Legolas, although at the time they'd been no more than friends.

As another yank on the rope choked her and the harsh fibers tore at the already bloodied skin of her neck, she turned her despair to anger, her fear to rage.  They were hurting Darion.  From farther up the procession, she could hear his cries, not only of fear, but of pain.  Still, even those cries were a reassurance.  Her son had been unconscious for nearly half of an hour after the attack.  Nimoë had been sure her heart would break from fear.  She could not lose Caldarion.

They had been traveling steadily east.  The trees grew thick and little light filtered through, but Nimoë was sure that it was nearing night.  Legolas would be missing them.  As soon as he realized they were gone, she was sure that he would send out search parties, but what was the chance that their trail would be found with any speed?  She could not rely on rescue. Not for her son.  She must be ready.

The men who had captured them clearly knew her, at least by reputation, or they would not have known to gag her.  Their speech was mostly unintelligible, guttural like Dwarvish, but certainly not derived from the same root.  Occasionally they used the Common Speech, but not often.  It was enough for her to guess at their identity and their purpose.  These were Easterlings, descendants of those Men who had fought with the Dark Lord Sauron during the War of the Ring.

They were a rough band, with ragged clothes and harsh actions.  More than one blow had been exchanged over who would guard the prisoners.  It had also become clear that they wanted her alive.  She'd heard the name "Elf-Witch," and her memory flew back to the last one to call her by that name, Grima Wormtongue.  He had spoken the words with fear.  The Easterlings spoke it with loathing, but a hint of respect.  They needed her power.

"Move your feet, Witch," her guard hissed, pulling again on the rope.  "We've got to make camp by nightfall."

Nimoë ached to raise her hands to her neck, to ease the chafing of the rope, but her hands were bound firmly behind her.  Caldarion screamed again and Nimoë felt tears seep from the corners of her eyes to soak into the fabric of her gag.

Camp, as it turned out, was more like a tiny town.  Rough buildings clung to the ground in an effort not to fall.  A large fire burned near the center, and the familiar smell of stewing meat filled the air.  Nimoë saw that there were no women, so she guessed this to be an outpost rather than a village.

Her body ached and her head swam.  She'd been knocked to the ground repeatedly, and the effort of keeping watch for any sign of weakness had worn her down to the point she could hardly keep her feet, but she forced herself to stand straight.  This was the home of the enemy, and she would not show weakness.

She was brought to the door of the largest building, which was covered only by a piece of heavy linen, and two men shoved her through.  She landed hard on her shoulder and the side of her head, as she could not use her hands to break her fall.

A low laugh echoed through the room.  "So, they have finally brought me the Elf-Witch.  I have waited long to make your acquaintance."

Nimoë struggled to her knees.  Before her, a giant of a man sat at his leisure in a carved throne.  His hair was the color of smoldering embers, and his eyes were so dark they seemed to hold no color at all.  What stole Nimoë's breath, however, was his face.

He bore the same massive handprint scar that had been seared into the face of Caldarion's namesake.

She sank back onto her heels.

"You recognize the mark, don't you?  Did it never occur to you that a master may have more than one servant?"

Nimoë shook her head in mute denial.

The man rose from his throne, towering over the Elf maid.  "I felt it happen, Witch.  I felt his scream as you ripped his hope for rebirth from his very grasp!"

Nimoë fell back in the face of his white hot rage.

"You will suffer for what you have done!"  He kicked out and Nimoë felt a shock of pain as his booted foot crashed into her ribs, sending her sprawling.  "Oh, yes, you will suffer."  One more kick, and Nimoë's vision blurred.  "But I need you conscious."  He spoke softly now, as if to himself.  "I need your power, to release my master from his imprisonment.  Somehow, I think you will resist.  But perhaps I have a way to convince you.  Guards!  Bring him!"

The linen door covering was pulled aside, and two Easterlings stepped inside, pulling Darion between them.  His face was bruised and dried blood trailed down from his nose, but he was not bound.

Nimoë groaned as she struggled to reach her son, pain lancing through her ribs.

"Nimi!" Darion cried, a note of hysteria in his voice.  "Darion scared!"  He rushed towards her, and Nimoë leaned forward, unable to wrap him in her arms, but wanting to give him what little comfort she could.

His little arms were a breath away when he was snatched up and tossed none to gently at the feet of the giant, who reached down and scooped up the boy.  Darion went stiff in his massive arms.

"A lovely boy.  It would be a shame if he were marred..."  With a motion so swift that Nimoë could hardly follow it, he pulled a dagger from its sheath at his waist and held it up to Caldarion's cheek.  The child did not flinch, seemingly aware of the gravity of his situation.

The knife pressed harder against his soft white skin, and then the giant gave a quick flick of his wrist, cutting into Darion's undefended face.  Nimoë couldn't hold back the scream deep in her throat, strangled though it was by the gag, and she threw herself towards the giant.

He laughed, a cold, mirthless sound, and pulled the knife away from Caldarion, who was weeping quietly.  "Oh?  You would rather that I didn't harm your son?  That is easily arranged.  All you have to do is release my master from his prison.  Give him your body as the willing vessel for his rebirth.  Do this, and I will see that no one harms a hair on this little boy's head."  He dropped down onto his heels and smiled coldly at Nimoë as she lay on her side on the floorboard.  "Do we have an agreement?"

She could no longer hold back her tears.  _Darion!  Elbereth, no!  I cannot make this choice.  I cannot!  What must I do?_

Her shoulders slumped and she nodded her accord.


	40. Pursuit

Soft moonlight illuminated the forests of Ithilien, the forms of the three hunters cast in shadowy relief against the trees.  Legolas sprinted ahead on light feet, his keen Elf eyes scanning the earth.  He could feel the passing minutes like a dagger plunging relentlessly towards his heart.  Time was running short.

Luck had been with them and they had picked up the trail with relative ease.  A large group of men had passed through the forest, and with them an Elf maiden.  Nimoë.  It could be no other.  Legolas stopped still and his fists clenched as he sighted an indent in the loam that could only have been made by a woman falling.  A woman with her hands bound.

Gilmin and Raven padded up to his side.  Legolas unclenched his jaw.  "They are hurting her.  We must make haste."

The Dwarf and the Hobbit nodded silently, and trotted after the swift Elf.

#

The giant nodded his head and smiled coldly.  "Excellent."  He beckoned the guards with a quick flick of his hand.

"Your orders, Garad?"

"Take the Elf-witch to the prison.  We will keep her there for the night."

"Food, water?"

Nimoë glanced up, trying to keep the hope from flaring in her eyes.

"No."  Her shoulders slumped back against the hard ground.  "We cannot remove the gag."

"Yes, Garad."

They grabbed Nimoë beneath her arms and yanked her to her feet.  Caldarion wailed, "Nimi!" but Garad paid the boy no heed.

Nimoë tried to struggle, but the strength had been sapped from her body.  It was all she could do to stand.  Tears ran down her face, soaking into the filthy material of the gag.  The Easterlings dragged her out of the doorway, and with each step, Caldarion's voice grew dimmer.  They couldn't hurt him, she tried to reassure herself.  Without him, there was no way to force her to their will.  Still his cries ripped at her heart, laying open great rents which bled fear like blood.

She stumbled on between her guards, fighting to keep from falling.  They led her to a ramshackle hut, locked by a heavy steel bolt.  They pulled the door wide and flung her inside, where she landed with a breath-stealing crash.  Through the momentary blackness that spun before her, she heard the lock fall back into place.

Nimoë did not try to rise.  Without Caldarion by her side, she dared not contemplate escape.  Best to rest while she had the chance.  She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing.

At last, she allowed herself to fall into her one safe place.  Legolas.  His face swam before her, eyes full of tenderness.  She could almost feel his strong arms wrapped round her, soothing away the pain, the fear.  She pleaded with his image to make haste.  With every fiber of her being she cried out for him.

Finally, safe in the ghostly arms of her love, she slept.

#

Legolas ran as light and swift as a deer through the moonlit forest.  A sensation of desperation had been steadily growing in his mind, as if Nimoë were crying out to him, lost, in pain.  With each step along the path of her captors, the faint cry grew stronger, tingling at the base of his spine, urging him on.

Still, Gilmin and Raven were falling behind.  He paused at the base of massive oak tree and waited, pacing restlessly, anxious to move on.  His companions crested the last rise and jogged down towards him.  Raven was nearly invisible in the darkness, but for the moonlight glinting off of his coal-black hair.

It could not have been more than minutes, but Legolas felt that he'd been waiting forever.  As they reached him, their breath coming in heavy pants, he turned to take up the pursuit, but was brought up short as a heavy net dropped out of the branches of the oak tree, trapping all three of the companions.

Gilmin let out a shout.  Legolas hesitated only a moment before reaching for his knives, but the heavy fiber strands tangled his hands, slowing him.  The thrashing of Raven and Gilmin knocked him off balance and fell to the earth, Raven atop him, with Gilmin still flailing for his axe.

"Stop struggling, or we'll kill you where you stand."

All three stopped still.  Legolas peered through the webbing of the net.  They were surrounded by no less than twenty Easterners, with bows draw, their arrows trained on their captives.  And captives they were.  Unable to draw their weapons, trapped and, for the moment, helpless.

Legolas cursed himself for a fool.  He'd been too intent on the trail, on the haunting call of Nimoë, that he hadn't read the signs fully.  He should never have allowed himself to walk straight into an ambush.  What good was he to Nimoë now?

He waited, muscles taut as a drawn bowstring, as the Easterlings dragged them free of the net and trussed them like game for the spit.  The leader laughed.  "Well, now.  The Elf Prince.  We've got the whole ruddy family now."  He spat on Legolas' soft leather boots.  "Your wife's been most cooperative, Elf.  Lovely thing.  I'd like to get my hands on her.  Elf-breasts are more tempting than any I've seen in many a long day."

Legolas lunged forward, heedless of his bound arms.  "Speak ill of my wife, and I will see you dead!  If you've harmed her--"

"You'll what?  Yell at me?"

The Easterlings dissolved into laughter.  Roughly, they led the captives towards the camp, which stood just over the next rise.  Legolas fumed silently.  They might have the upper hand now, but he had lived for thousands of years.  All those years must have taught him something he could use to his advantage.

As they entered the Easterlings' camp, he searched for any sign of Nimoë or Caldarion, but he saw nothing.  Only more than a hundred Men, rough and sinister, ranged around the campfires.  He did not resist when his captors bound him to the trunk of a tree, near the center of a broad clearing.  Gilmin and Raven were bound nearby.  After searching them for any concealed weapons, the Easterlings left the captives where they stood.

"That went well," commented Raven, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

"I am sorry, friends.  I should not have brought you here.  You should not have been involved with this," Legolas replied.

Gilmin shifted against the trunk of his tree.  "Do not apologize, Legolas.  We are here of our own free will, and should we manage to free ourselves, you'll need us if we're to find Nimoë and Caldarion and make good our escape."

Legolas did not reply.  Four against more than a hundred?  He'd faced such odds before, but they looked no better now.  "Get what rest you can.  Who can say what the morning will bring."


	41. A Mother's Love

Sunlight pierced through the cracks in the ramshackle hut where Nimoë was imprisoned.  She groaned and rolled onto her back.  They would be coming for her soon, to begin the trek to Orodruin, to release Morgoth.  Her cheek stung where it had been pressed into the rough earth through the night.  Her stomach grumbled loudly and she tried to ignore the pangs of hunger.  

It was a long journey back to the Mountain of Fire.  Surely the Easterlings would have to give her food and water.  She would never reach their destination, else.  And when they pulled her gag free, she would be ready.  Once, she'd sworn not to use the magic to harm, but to save her child, she would do anything, even the act that would truly brand her Elf-witch.

The click of the bolt opening alerted her and she forced herself to relax.  Fear would only weaken her.  To her surprise, it was Garad himself who entered her hut, his massive bulk overwhelming the space.  He was smiling.

"I trust you are rested?  I do hope so.  I have a special surprise for you this morning."  Garad dragged Nimoë to her feet.  "You may see your son, witch.  Take what pleasure in him you may, for I fear you'll have little more this day, or many others to come."

As they stepped into the crisp morning, Nimoë squinted against the bright light after the near darkness of the hut.  The camp bustled with activity: men rolling up bedding, sharpening axes and blades, and a steady stream moved away from the main encampment towards an empty copse just to the north.

Garad led her in that direction, his fingers tight enough around her arm to bruise, but Nimoë did not struggle.  Indeed, she wasn't certain that she would be able to stand without his support.

"Nimi!"

Nimoë spun around at Caldarion's high-pitched cry and began to tremble with relief when she spotted his little blond head dashing towards her.  The cut where Garad had bloodied his face the night before was still raw and red, but the edges were beginning to heal.  He was alive.  He was well.

He reached her side and threw his arms around her booted leg.  "Nimi, Darion scared!"

Unable to respond, she nudged him gently with her foot.  The smile he gave her showed her he understood.

"A lovely reunion.  And there is more, although perhaps you will wish it had not been."

Suddenly afraid, Nimoë glanced up at Garad's flame-framed face.  His smile was cold and he drew her onwards to the clearing.  With his free hand, he gestured to the trio of trees that stood in the center.

As her eyes focused on what she was seeing, Nimoë staggered.  No!  Not Legolas!  His face was haggard, his hands tied over his head, legs lashed to the trunk of the tree.  Gilmin and Raven, ever faithful friends, were trussed beside him.  This could not be happening.  A dream.  A fevered hallucination.  She'd had them before.

Then Legolas saw her.  The expression of rage and devotion that swept over his face told her this was no dream.  Her husband had found her, and now he would pay the price.

Garad's laugh began low in his belly and rumbled up out of his throat.  "Oh, I see such pain in your eyes, Witch.  I could almost believe you mortal in this moment.  And like a mortal your husband will die."

Nimoë wrenched herself free of his grasp, shaking her head furiously.  How to make him understand?  If he killed Legolas, he killed her with him.  She dropped to her knees and groveled, not feeling the humiliation of her act, intent only on saving the life of her love.

"Nimoë, no!" Legolas called, and she glanced up at him.  "Do not abase yourself for me.  You must be strong for Caldarion."

Caldarion.  His warm body nestled against her own, his cheeks red, eyes swollen with crying.  Nimoë thought her heart was being ripped in two.  Uncertainly froze her and Garad dragged her back onto her feet.  "Stand here, Witch, and watch them die.  And remember, if you do not do what I ask, this will also be the fate of your beautiful son."

Garad strode away toward the center of the field, flanked by two of his men; the rest stood in a loose circle ringing the edge of the trees.

Legolas caught her eyes, although she could hardly see through the tears that flowed freely.  It was enough.  She could see the unearthly blue, but each moment a vision came upon her of their light gone out, staring cold and lifeless towards the sky.  She staggered, and her boot brushed up against Caldarion.

"Any last words, Elf?" Gadar growled.

Legolas drew his gaze away from Nimoë and faced the flame-haired giant.  "Kill me if you must, but spare my companions.  They have done you no harm."

A strange pulling sensation ran up Nimoë's shin and she glanced down.  Her mother's knife!  She'd kept it hidden in the shin of her boot, and Caldarion was pulling it free.  _Oh, Valar, thank you.  Elbereth, give him speed._

Garad lifted his axe free from his belt.  "You waste your words, Elf.  I know well who your companions are.  Without their acts, my master would reign now in Middle-Earth.  No, they shall die in your wake."  He raise the axe and pulled it back, preparing to throw.

Nimoë felt the cold steel of her mother's knife against the skin of her wrists as Caldarion sawed at the rope binding her hands.  He gave little grunts as he worked, the heavy fiber too tough for his small strength to cut with ease.  _Hurry, my son.  Hurry for your father's sake._

The first coil snapped free.  Nimoë wriggled her hands, urging blood to flow back into her deadened limbs.

"Your master is sealed in the void where he was banished," said Legolas.  "It is the will of the Valar.  He cannot have dominion in this world."  His eyes flashed to Nimoë, then widened just slightly.  He turned his gaze away, his face hard.  "You will die, Easterling, for the harm you have done to my wife and child."

Garad threw his head back and laughed.  "Fine words from one who is bound like the evening meal ready to be roasted."  Suddenly, his smile disappeared and his face went black as thunderclouds.  "We have wasted too many words.  _Die!_"

The last coil of rope fell free and Nimoë grabbed the knife from Caldarion's hand. Garad's arm flew forward and the axe hurled through the air towards Legolas' head.  Without a thought, Nimoë flung the knife with deadly aim.

The lighter blade reached the tree first, severing the rope that held Legolas' arms over his head.  As quick as lightning, he dropped to a crouch and the axe buried itself in the tree just above his head.

He reached up, grabbed the axe, and chopped away the rope binding his legs.  Then, spinning like a whirlwind, he freed Gilmin and Raven.  He tossed the axe to the Dwarf and pulled the knife free of the tree.

The Easterlings had been stunned momentarily, but quickly roused themselves and ran forward, weapons raised.  Legolas, Gilmin and Raven drew together and stood with their backs close, the Elf and Dwarf brandishing their weapons, Raven his fists.

There were too many.  The first wave of Easterlings crashed against them and fell, Raven grabbing a sword from an attacker's belt.  Then the next wave fell, but they could not hope to stand for long.

Nimoë's numb fingers struggled with the knots of her gag.  Caldarion hugged her leg tight.  She watched in horror as Garad strode through the attacking Easterlings toward the trio of fighters.  He held a new axe, and vengeance burned behind his eyes.

Suddenly, Gilmin faltered and dropped to one knee, clutching his shoulder, which had been pierced by an Eastern sword.  Then Raven staggered and fell, clubbed over the head.  Legolas stood alone.

Garad howled and charged, his axe ready to cleave Legolas' head from his shoulders.  Legolas tried to parry, but a Easterling hit him from behind and the knife fell from his hand.

With one vicious yank, Nimoë pulled the gag free, tearing the corners of her mouth.  Through pain and blood, she sang.

Garad stumbled, hesitated, then screamed in agony.  He collapsed to the ground, clutching his head between his hands, and one by one, every Easterling dropped to the earth.  Their wailing nearly drowned out Nimoë's song, but as she poured her anger into the words of power, one by one, they died.

The song raged through her, out of her control, until the field was littered with dead Easterlings.  Then, when her parched throat could not rasp a single note, her eyes rolled back and she felt herself fall as the world went dark.

#

Author's Note:  I just wanted to thank all of you who have taken the time to email me with words of encouragement and hope.  This has been a very big learning experience for me.  You should know that Elfsong, this story's prequel, was the first story I ever finished, and it had a built in major plot to follow.  Song of the Heart is the first story with a completely original plot that I've ever come close to finishing.  When I do (which really is only a few chapters away) this will be a major milestone in my writing life.  Finishing something has always been a struggle for me.  With perseverance, this will finally get done.  It will.  It will. *repeat mantra*

Thanks again and look for more within the next week.


	42. Aftermath

Legolas fought the urge to run to Nimoë's side as she lay, pale as death, on the hard earth.  Instead, he dropped down beside Gilmin, who was groaning and clutching his pierced shoulder, just above his breast.

The Dwarf grabbed Legolas' hand and squeezed with ferocious strength.  "Did we win?" he grated.

Legolas nodded.  "It is over.  Lie still.  I will bind your wound, but you must not injure it further."

He tore strips of fabric from the nearest Easterling's garments and wrapped them around the Dwarf's shoulder.  The natural ruddy hue of the Gilmin's skin faded to a sickly yellow, and blood flowed freely from his wound.  Had the blow struck lower, Gilmin would likely be dead already.  As it was, unless Nimoë woke soon and could channel her song to the Dwarf's aid, he may well die yet.

"Is it bad?" Gilmin asked.

Legolas shook his head.  "Nothing to worry about.  Just stay still.  Try to rest."

A light touch on his shoulder startled him and he spun on his knee to find himself face to face with his son.  Caldarion's wide eyes glistened with unshed tears and his lower lip trembled.

Without a word, Legolas opened his arms wide and the child fell forward into them.  His small arms coiled around Legolas' neck and he clung with surprising strength.  Legolas felt the child's body trembling and whispered soft words, "It is done.  You were magnificent.  You saved us all."

"My true godson, you are," Gilmin rasped and tried to raise a hand to reassure the boy.

Caldarion pulled away from Legolas and knelt by the Dwarf's head.  He leaned over and kissed the grizzled brow.  "Are you dying?"

Gilmin shook his head slightly, biting back a groan against the pain.

The Elf child turned his gaze to meet his father's and his eyes held disbelief.  Legolas found he could not hide the truth from his son.  The Dwarf was not looking his way.  He nodded.  Gilmin was dying, slowly, but without more aid than he could give, he would go to the halls of his fathers before the sun set.

Caldarion cradled Gilmin's head in his arms and wept silently, his tears washing clean trails in the dirt crusting the Dwarf's face.  Legolas squeezed his eyes shut.  Too much death.  Too much pain.  He feared for his friend, and he mourned for his son's lost innocence.  Even if they reached the Undying Lands, this memory of soul-deep grief would shade Caldarion's spirit for all the long years of his life.

A rustle brought Legolas' eyes back open.  Raven groaned and rolled up onto one elbow.  "Aah," he moaned and brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the light.  "Where am I?"

"With your friends," Legolas replied.  "How do you feel?"

Blinking furiously, Raven moved his fingers over skull.  He winced as they grazed a large bump, blood trailing from the split skin down his face.  "I'll live.  What happened?  How did we --" he gestured at the field littered with the bodies of the Easterlings.

"Nimoë."

Raven nodded.  "I am sorry.  I failed you."

Legolas reached across the ground that separated them and gripped the hobbit around his upper arm.  "You fought bravely, Raven.  You failed no one."

"How is she?"

Legolas' gaze leapt to Nimoë's still form.

"Go to her," Gilmin croaked.  "There's nothing more you can do for me."

Legolas pressed his lips together, then nodded and rose gracefully to his feet.  He leapt over the bodies of the dead, slowing only when he reached her side.  Her skin was as white as parchment, her breathing shallow.  He dropped to his knees and brushed her silken hair back from her face.  Bruises marred her skin on her arms and neck.  He kissed his fingers then traced them over each injury.  "Nimoë," he called softly.  "Nimoë, we need you.  I need you."

Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.  "Love, you saved us.  Your family and friends are alive.  But Gilmin...  Gilmin is sore injured.  He needs your song.  Please, Nimoë.  Find your way back."  He pressed her fingers, distressed at the chill of them.

Her breath came out on a sigh.  "Legolas."

A wave of warmth swept through his chest at her voice.  "I am here."

"You came for me."

"Always."

She gripped his hand harder and squeezed her eyes, then they fluttered open.  "You could have died."

"I would give anything for you, Nimoë.  I would give my life."

She shook her head and a faint blush like the petals of spring roses began to seep back into her skin.  "I would not ask it of you."

"All the more reason I would give it.  Can you stand?"

Nimoë blinked.  "I do not know."

"You must try.  Gilmin needs your aid."

Her eyes flew wide.  "Gilmin?"

"He lives, but his time is short."

Nimoë placed both hands in his own.  "Help me go to him."

Legolas pulled and Nimoë lurched upright, then collapsed against him.  "Nimoë?"

She clung to him, her face buried in his shoulder.  "The world is spinning."

As she gathered her breath, Legolas drank in the smell of her.  No smell in all of Middle Earth was as sweet.  The feel of her body pressed against him was a homecoming.  Much as he longed to rest in the moment, he pressed her away, supporting her firmly by the arms.  "Are you steady?"

"Yes," she said, although she swayed as she spoke.  "Take me to him."

Together they crossed the field of bodies towards the three gathered together in the center.  Legolas heard Nimoë suck in her breath and felt her tremble at the sight of the Easterlings littering the ground, dead by her hand.  The last time she had used her song to do harm, she'd fallen into a despair like none he'd seen before.  He could only hope she would be stronger this time.  At least she kept moving, even if tears slid silently down her cheeks.

At last they reached Gilmin, Raven and Caldarion.  Nimoë sank to her knees beside the wounded Dwarf.  She laid her hands against the blood-soaked bandage and closed her eyes.

"Can you fix him, Nimi?" Caldarion asked, his eyes red-rimmed.

Legolas watched as Nimoë focused her thoughts upon the Dwarf.  She drew in a shuddering breath and began to sing.  Her voice was hoarse, but the melody rang clear.  Legolas held his breath, waiting for some sign that the magic was working, but something felt different.  The music was as pure as ever, but the tingle of power that had radiated from Nimoë as she sang in the past was gone.  There was only song.

She fell silent, then began again, a different melody.  And another.

Her hands fell from Gilmin's wound and her shoulders collapsed.  She stared up at Legolas, a mingling of horror and acceptance written in her storm-grey eyes.  "To save you I profaned the deep magic.  Galadriel warned me against such an act, but she did not tell me the consequences."  She spoke then in a voice like a lost child.  "The Elfsong has forsaken me."


End file.
